Bachelor Party
by Rizzle
Summary: Wizarding Britain’s most famous couple is getting married. Organised mayhem ensues.
1. Chapter 1

Story Notes:

I would recommend that you read 'Something Old' before you read this, even though this is technically the prequel.

**Prologue**

_Three Weeks to Malfoy-Granger Nuptials! _

_The countdown to the most anticipated matrimonial event this century stands at three weeks! Witch Weekly had secured exclusive rights to bring you pictures of the hotly anticipated Malfoy-Granger wedding. Our very own Witch Weekly social correspondent, Miss Parvati Patil, managed to catch Wedding-of-the-Century bridesmaid, Lavender Brown, for a brief chat. "The wizarding world needs a bit of fun and frou frou right now," said a beaming Miss Brown at the Order of Merlin Award Presentation Dinner last week, where she accepted a Third Class honour. _

_When questioned as to the rumours of recent discord between Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy, Miss Brown was quick to quash any claims to such. "They're like any two young lovers, really. We're thrilled for them."_

_Harry Potter, who was not present to accept his Order of Merlin, First Class, has been curiously unwilling to offer any comment on the nuptials. _

_Speculations as to a love triangle between Malfoy, Granger and The Boy Who Triumphed have been vehemently denied by Ronald Weasley. Weasley was also present at the Award Dinner to accept the seven First Class Honours and eighteen Second Class Honours on behalf of all the recipient members of Dumbledore's Army. Weasley did provide some comment on the rumours, but unfortunately, Witch Weekly is unable to publish it at this time, due to stringent censorship regulations._

_We continue to maintain vigil outside Malfoy Manor, where Miss Granger has been known to pay intermittent visits over the past three months._

_In related news, no further updates as yet concerning the final guest list of the Draco Malfoy Bachelor Party, which is undoubtedly the second most sought after invitation in wizarding society this decade. _

_** _

_The soldiers of Dumbledore's Army are delighted to present:_

_The Bachelor Party of Draco Lucius Sebastien Euphemer Malfoy!_

_Join us for an evening of drinks, entertainment and old-fashioned,_

_wizarding debauchery. Venue: The Three Broomsticks, Hogsmeade Village_

_Time: 7pm_

_Dress code: '1920s Muggle-Wear'_

_RSV- Owl upon receipt._

_**_

The invitations were mauve, God damn it.

"They look pink to me," Neville Longbottom muttered, as he sent an owl out his office window with a fresh delivery of crisp _mauve_ and cream envelopes.

Draco folded his arms. He leaned back in the chair and crossed his feet up on Neville's cluttered desk. A novelty Golden Snitch (charmed to heckle when one was looking for something misplaced, which in Neville's case, was quite often), inched dangerously close to the edge of the table.

"Watch that, please," Neville requested. "It's an early Wheezes prototype. Collectors' item, you know."

This was not news to Draco, due to the fact that Neville had taken on the position of Marketing Liaison for Fred and George Weasley's ridiculously successful business venture. As such, Neville's office was stacked, floor to ceiling, with numerous other Wheezes originals, best sellers, memorable one offs and prototypes.

It was the prototypes Draco knew to stay clear of.

"Not that I mind pink," Neville backtracked, casting an RSVP Charm over the remaining ten invitations. He did this rather well, with a casual confidence that had bloomed late, but strong.

"That's good, Longbottom," Draco returned, "only the invitations to my bachelor party are mauve. And cream. On very nice, very expensive, embossed, parchment. With a burgundy trim."

Neville nodded, a look of infernal understanding settling over his round face. "Hermione's idea then? To have them all in pinks?"

Three weeks to go, Draco reminded himself, as he pinched the bridge of his nose. The things one did for _love_. Although these days, given the extreme and cruel neglect he was suffering at Hermione Granger's very capable, small hands, Draco thought it had to be lust.

Ignoring Neville, which was slightly harder to do lately, since Neville had taken to dying his hair an offensive, fluorescent yellow, Draco resumed the task of signing off on the remaining invitations.

He paused on the last one, which was addressed to a 'Mister Alastor Quincy Moody'.

"Who the bloody hell invited Moody?" Draco demanded.

Neville paused in his lick-fold-lick rhythm. Draco was exhausted and not a little bit cranky. Neville knew this because Draco had been resorting to thinly veiled insults, open slander and crass comments over the past hour, regarding everything from the guests list to the choice of finger foods. This was all well below his usual standard of cutting, yet subtle.

The poor man, thought Neville, watching as Draco scowled at Moody's invitation, he _really_ needed a good, long, lie down.

"Harry wanted to invite Moody...something about saving his life three or four times? I forget," Neville shrugged. "Now where did I put that seal?" The Golden Snitch on the table began to hop about, making inappropriate comments about Neville's weight, dress sense and hair, in that particular order.

"Am I done here?" Draco asked, signing his name on Moody's invitation and throwing his quill down on the desk.

"Yeah. Off you go. Get some rest, Malfoy. You look like Hagrid after a bender."

"Sod off, Longbottom," retorted Draco, but without any feeling. Picking up his business satchel, he exited Neville's office in three long-legged strides, and made his way down the third floor corridor of Wheezes Enterprises. A very faint pop of Disapparition could be heard a moment later.

Neville hummed a half forgotten Shirley Bassey tune to himself (his grandmother had been partial to Shirls) as he slipped Moody's invitation into an envelope.

Yes, some time spent at home in Hermione's soothing presence would do any man a world of good.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Chapter Notes:

The French line about sword making needs to be fixed as the cut and paste into Word seems to have left out some apostrophes. Will fix.

**Part One: Memory**

_Draco, _

_I've gone with Lavender to Hogsmeade Tailors to have her bridesmaid robes altered. (Apparently, Lavender's discovered the delights of ricotta connollis while on holiday). _

_There really isn't anything to eat in the Manor and I've looked in that dungeon you call a pantry. I don't suppose you'd fancy popping over to my Mum's for a quick bite? She'd be ecstatic to see you eating, particularly if she's the one feeding you. Or you could pop down to the Village and pick up something there? _

_Remember, the local restaurants will not deliver to the Manor, so please don't ring them up again to ask. I know you like to use the telephone now that you have one. _

_I mentioned that I was going to spend the weekend at my grandmother's, but I'll try and stop over for a visit on Saturday evening._

_In the meantime, get some sleep. Please?_

_Love,_

_Hermione_

_** _

Draco read over Hermione's message twice. It was very like her to leave three or four meal options in the notes she left for him lately. And lately, there had been _many_ notes.

He had quite a collection in his desk drawer.

They weren't living together. Not since Hermione's mother had developed a mild case of the Prudes at the beginning of the year. Apparently, having her daughter involved in a life or death struggle over the fate of the wizarding world had brought about a late developing, over-protectiveness in the otherwise unflappable Mrs. Granger.

The laws were laid down hard and firm. There was to be no 'co-habitation', not until they were 'properly married'.

Thank Merlin then, for Apparition. Hermione had come to see him very early that morning, and this had resulted in several hours of pleasant diversions before Draco had to leave for his appointment with Longbottom at Wheezes Enterprises.

Given their respective schedules, what with Hermione organising a wedding and assisting in the reformation of the Ministry of Magic, and him attempting to dis-organise what was left of his late father's dodgy business dealings, they barely had the time to sit down for a meal together, let alone engage in the recreational procreational activity people their age enjoyed so much.

All this enforced celibacy was enough to drive a wizard to find a hobby.

If he had known that a little thing like a marriage proposal and ensuing wedding preparations was going to rob him of one of the few things in life he actually looked forward to, well then, they might have been better off sniping and slandering at each her for the rest of their lives. Merlin knew he got a hell of a lot more attention from Hermione when they hated each other's guts.

To be honest though, he should have anticipated this current period of 'settling in'. He was by no means the only person having trouble adjusting to life post-war. It was odd enough for him to wake up in the morning these days _without_ the bone-deep feeling of dread he had become accustomed to. He and Hermione were currently sailing in unchartered waters, and the navigation process has thus far been a case of trial and error.

It didn't help that Draco felt like Hermione was the one doing most of the steering.

He had felt blissfully isolated with Hermione during the war, no matter that they had hardly been afforded any time to themselves, or any real privacy. It was as if they had been set adrift on their own, private, little raft, floating along with the others. Part of a whole, and yet curiously separate.

How ironic that now when he had all the space he wanted, all the rooms he could walk into and lock doors behind, Draco just felt more exposed. He wanted to toss Hermione over his broom, find the darkest, pocket of space on the planet and simply _stay_ there.

But of course this was an impractical, immature, not to mention unhealthy desire. Hermione had thrown open a window in his previously grey existence and he was going to have to learn to live his life with a little bit of light and fresh air.

Their favourite time together was undisputedly in the very late hours of the evening, when meetings were over, when Ministry offices were shut, when shops were closed and when relatives and friends packed off to their respective abodes.

These moments were akin to being transported a year and a half back in time, when everything they did, every conversation, every night spent together had been suffused with the bittersweet tang of uncertainty. There was always a sense of urgency, that _that_ night would be their last in a long while, or possibly forever.

Their first time together had been volatile, for lack of a better description.

Draco smiled in memory. It had happened at the end of their Seventh Year.

Following a tense, final, six-hour long, pre-battle meeting; during which Dumbledore had lost his temper (everyone was dully gobsmacked), Remus Lupin called Alastor Moody a 'cagey old bastard' and Harry announced that he was fully intending to go down in battle, Hermione had thrown down her quill and stalked out of Dumbledore's office in tears.

Draco had made a similar exit half an hour prior, minus the tears, and even though there were a dozen different places at Hogwarts that a person might have gone to for privacy, they _somehow_ crossed paths at the same greenhouse.

Draco liked the greenhouses. There was something soothing about the darkness, the scent of earth and the silence of growing things. And then there was always Hagrid's illegally crossbred, Venus Fly Trap to torment. Only he wasn't paying attention that evening and would have lost a chunk of finger to the beastly plant, had Hermione not thrown open the greenhouse door when she did.

Draco had not been in the mood to share his sanctuary with a female in the throes of moist histrionics. As usual, his mouth had taken off while his weary brain struggled to keep pace.

For the second time since they had known each other, she hit him, full in the face and hard enough to cause his lip to drip-bleed like a leaky faucet. He remembered so clearly, the look of horror that came over her, the way her large, brown eyes had mirrored about a dozen emotions, all at once. He marveled at this, at how people could put so much of themselves on display for the world to see, to catalogue and file away for future malicious reference.

But then she had collapsed, and the sniffling turned into the kind of mewling one usually associated with distressed baby animals.

Draco had mutely stood there, nursing his bitten hand, his torn lip dripping blood onto the dirt floor. The sight of Hermione Granger crying at his feet didn't quite have the effect on him that he thought it should've.

He became angry. Why should _she_ have the luxury of having a mental breakdown one day before the biggest, bloodiest, most vicious battle against Voldemort's forces? He wanted to tell her to stand up, to wipe her nose and to get the hell on with it.

What came out of his mouth however, was something quite different.

Kneeling down in the dirt beside her, he told Hermione to hide away her feelings of hopelessness and defeat, to bury her doubts and disguise her fears. He told her that there wasn't something she was thinking that one of the others had not already thought. He told her that if she walked back into the meeting, looking like she no longer believed in miracles, in flying cars and boy heroes, in true love and the right of every damnable house elf to a decent retirement plan, then nobody was going to feel much like risking their lives the next day. He reminded her that they were fighting so that wizards and witches _like her_ could keep their stupid, lofty ideals.

And then he went on.

He explained that some things were priceless to have on one's side in battle. Things that were even more valuable than the best strategists, the nastiest curses or the most heinous hexes-- things like belief and conviction, loyalty born out of affection and respect, Harry's innate goodness, Ron Weasley's courage and steadfast loyalty, Ginny Weasley's reckless bravado, the immense self-sacrifice of men like Remus Lupin and Albus Dumbledore. He told her that they all recognised and valued these traits in each other, and that Voldemort would never acquire such gifts. Nor would he know how to use them, if he did.

Draco admitted that he hadn't a clue as to what he could have offered the others apart from a practical utility, but he _knew_ that there had to be something in him as well.

He told Hermione he knew this because he could _see_ it in her eyes, in the moments he caught her looking at him as he made suggestions, or went through scenarios, when he carefully plotted over a map or diagram, or when he gave his dismal pre-battle speeches to the younger soldiers

. And then he told her that he too watched her in the same way, and warned her that if that look in her eyes was ever to disappear. Well then. He would march up to Dumbledore's office to hand in his wand, after which he would set up a deck chair on the battle sidelines and watch the proceedings with detached interest and a tropical cocktail in hand.

As he told Hermione these dark, secret, intensely personal things, the light in her eyes that had seeped away moments before gradually returned, brighter and stronger. Red nosed, puffy eyed and hiccoughing, Hermione had reached up to cup his cold cheek, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth with a warm, excruciatingly gentle, thumb.

Silly, stupid, _stupid_ girl.

She might have easily saved herself a potential lifetime of heartache, irritation and frustration, if she just hadn't touched him. He, who hadn't been held in kindness or loving since his paternal grandmother had passed on when he was six. And of course, Nana Malfoy hadn't been looking at him as if he were heaven, hell, and a universal library pass all in the one tarnished package.

They had returned to the castle three hours later, hair askew, clothing in shambles and looking like they had had a bad run in with a nest of rabid Doxies.

There wasn't any discussion. No long talks or rationalising. Hermione had simply taken his hand and led him back to her room. And that was where they remained until Dumbledore came to wake Draco at dawn.

Neither was there a chance for anyone else to comment on the new development the next day. Draco was set to leave. He would not see Hermione again for the eight months he spent living with Voldemort's Death Eaters.

Hermione didn't say goodbye. Hell, even Weasley had given him a mumbled wish of good luck and a stiff handshake. But she and Harry did walk him to Hogsmeade, where he would Apparate from the outskirts of the village.

Looking pale, swollen lipped and sporting noticeable whisker burns across her cheek, Hermione had sent him off with his own words. With her clear, articulate tones, the sentimental dribble had sounded a great deal better coming out of her mouth than it had from his.

"Come back safely to us, and you will find a place where witches do believe in miracles, true love and house elf rights across the board," she told him primly, as he stepped across the Hogsmeade district boundary.

If Harry thought this was an odd way of sending off a fellow comrade, he didn't comment. Not that Harry had said much of anything that final year. He had become something of a man of action. His way of dealing with the stress, Draco supposed. That was all well and good.

They had all developed ways of dealing with the tension. Ron took to shagging anything in a Hogwarts school skirt, Hermione invented fifty-seven new spells (Draco altered thirty-eight of these into hexes), and Harry refused to speak more than a sentence to anyone other than Dumbledore and Severus Snape.

Snape had already been outed as a double agent by this point, and had a death edict the size of Devon handing over his moody head. Draco had come to know his former Head of House very well over the months he had spent training with him. Following Snape's desertion, Voldemort had been extremely selective in who he recruited.

It was testament to Snape's skills in instructing (and in the art of deception) that Draco was able to pass for an overzealous, Mudblood-hater. There had been 'tests' that Draco had been forced to pass before being given the Mark. Only Snape knew of these, and the nature of the tests were such that the knowledge stayed only between the two of them.

The chiming of the grandfather clock at the foot of the main staircase jarred Draco from his recollections, taking him a year and half forward, back to Malfoy Manor, back to the grand, marble foyer and back to feeling annoyed at Hermione's constant absences.

Slipping her note into his breast pocket, Draco re-cast the security wards over his home and took the steps two at a time. His boots made a great deal of noise on the marble, and given that Malfoy Manor was now nearly devoid of furniture, there was nothing to stop the sound from carrying through the house's cavernous expanses.

There wasn't much about his home that Draco liked. In fact, he didn't think his father or grandfather had been too fond of the property either. Whatever could be said about the late Lucius Malfoy, there was no doubting that he had had impeccable taste. Pureblood residences were known more for their moody, dark, gothic and oftentimes gaudy decor, than for refined elegance.

That was the problem with being in an old family. Tradition called for the display of every other ancestral portrait, family artefact of mild renown, symbol, standard, banner and an assortment of hideous furniture. This was why every Pureblood manor came with a legion of house elves, for it took that many just to keep the place dust free.

After the war, Draco had found it extremely cathartic to trot around his property, six foot inventory scroll in hand, making great big, red ticks next to the things he wanted removed, stored, sold, hidden or chopped up into kindling and sprinkled like confetti over the Thames. He had gone a bit overboard, to be honest, and Hermione had seen fit to intervene.

She reminded him that while he did not have warm and fuzzy feelings towards his father, there was more to the Malfoy name than 'Lucius'. Some items were historically priceless, and ought to be treated as such. And so Draco had secured nearly an entire level of Gringotts, to store the various items he didn't care to look at on daily basis.

His bedroom however, was the one place Draco didn't mind, simply because he had become accustomed to it. Nothing much had been altered there.

The same heavy, red velvet drapes hung at the windows, the same furniture and portraits. His bedroom furniture had once belonged to the merchant Malfoys that had traded magical herbs in the East Indies. As a result, his four-poster bed, matching bureau and desk were all made from a port-coloured, Chinese rose wood. There had been shelving against one wall, but this had been used mainly to house decorative items. The unit and most of its contents was draped in white cloth.

Upon entering his chambers, the bed began its usual, silent, Siren's call. And as usual, Draco ignored it.

He had other pressing matters to attend to.

He stood before the fireplace, removed his wand from his jacket pocket, and called up a familiar, much used, Floo-line. The flames fizzled and lurched, the sharp crackling sound indicating that the connection was being made across a considerable distance.

"Stephenson & Stephenson. Graeme Stephenson, speaking," said a handsome looking, older gentleman, with a short-clipped, silver beard.

The stern face broke into a smile upon seeing Draco. "Mr Malfoy. The usual?"

"The usual," Draco agreed, stripping off his jacket and hanging it over a bedpost. "She's with Lavender Brown, in Hogsmeade."

"How long ago?"

"About an hour, give or take."

"I'll send a man at once."

There was a brief pause, during which Draco waited for Stephenson to end the transmission, as Floo protocol dictated.

"Was there something else?" Draco eventually asked, when the man's head continued to hover among the flames.

"You look dead on your feet, son."

Draco mentally flinched at the term of address, but outwardly, he raised a white-blond eyebrow. "Not that that's any of your business," he said, very slowly, "but I thank you for the concern."

Stephenson frowned, looked as if he was about to say something, but then shrugged. "You're my best customer. I'd hate to see business waste away just because you are."

"Given the state of affairs these days, I hardly think there'll be a shortage of people requiring extra security, Mr. Stephenson. The community is in shambles," Draco commented, removing his onyx cufflinks and setting them on his dresser. "Or at least that is the case within the British community."

"Same in the States, my boy. Our Senate member has been run off with his tail between his legs. Guess who's been hired to track the son of a bitch down?" Stephenson waggled his eyebrows.

"I thought you'd retired?" Draco queried. He was seated on the edge of his bed, pulling off his boots.

Stephenson laughed. "Yup. My eldest is handling the case. Good to have four sons to do all the legwork. Call it work experience and they'll just about mop the floors at our building."

"Well, I hope you get your man," said Draco. He was now barefooted, and standing before the fire.

Graeme nodded, looking business-like. "Hope has nothing to do with it, my boy. I'll speak with you soon, Mr. Malfoy. You have a good day."

As the transmission ended, the green flames turned to orange, and the only sound to be heard was the faint crackling of the log fire. Draco remained where he was, one arm braced against the mantelpiece, watching the flames.

The quiet in the room was short lived.

"De quoi penses-tu, Draco?" inquired a husky, feminine voice.

Draco startled slightly. He looked up at the large, gilt-framed painting located above the mantelpiece, a slow smile appearing on his face. "Usille," he greeted softly, "Long time no see."

Usille Malfoy was a very distant ancestor, having lived late in the thirteenth century. The painting was more recent, however, and had only been commissioned at the turn of the century by Draco's great-grandfather. It was an unusual setting for an ancestral portrait, featuring Usille in a blacksmith's workshop, where she spent most of her time crafting a variety of sharp, pointy objects.

Her resemblance to Draco was more than passing. They shared the same tall, long-limbed frame, the same fine, white-blond hair and, pale, almost translucent skin.

The only marked difference was in their eye colour. Usille's eerie eyes were nearly colourless. Draco, on the other hand, had inherited the steel tones of his father's eyes. It was difficult to gauge her age just by looking at her, for all that Draco had asked her about a hundred times. Usille made it a point to never speak of her personal history, and no amount of prodding or cajoling could produce a different result. Neither was Draco successful in locating more than a casual mention of Usille in the usually detailed, Malfoy family history.

Usille favoured her descendent with a toothy smile. She slid the forge-heated sword she had been honing into a vat of water, causing a great quantity of steam to billow from the painting. "I have been beezee," she said, wiping her hands on the front of her breeches. "Forger les a33;p'es, a33;a prend du temps."

"English please, Usille," Draco reminded. "I didn't spend all those weeks teaching you for nothing." He watched in amusement as his ancestor rolled her eyes. She removed a jewelled dagger from her blacksmith's apron and began to enthusiastically pare an apple.

Lucius had had the painting moved into Draco's room when Draco had been a toddler. The gossip among the other portraits in the manor was that the painting had given Lucius the wobblies.

Usille had children, but you never saw them. Rather, you _heard_ them. Their bell-like laughter could sometimes be discerned in the background of the painting, as if her offspring were hiding in the shadows of the workshop, keeping out of their mother's way as she hammered and folded her swords.

Other times, when it was very, very quiet, it nearly seemed like they were _out_ of the painting and loose _in_ the Manor. Draco could only guess at Lucius's motives for introducing him to their mysterious, eccentric ancestor. It was no secret that Lucius detested children, whether phantom or real, and he had probably surmised that the painting's eerie effect would condition young Draco.

But Usille never frightened him. When he was a child, she had sung old, French, drinking songs to him. And now that he was older, she could always be counted on for a quick, insightful conversation. No doubt that there was something strange about her, something slightly off kilter. But no amount of careful questions put to either of his parents, had resulted in anything more revealing than, _"that damnable painting."_

As it was, Usille had finished the task of coring her apple, and began to lecture Draco on the importance of remembering one's linguistic roots.

It was been impossible to understand her when they first met. The French she spoke was old, but over the years, throughout the hundreds of conversations they had shared, they managed to meet at middle ground.

Draco had simply taught her english.

"I have not seen you since you brought your little witch to see zer Manor," Usille remarked, taping her fingernail against the flat edge of her dagger. She moved with a curious languor, as if the air in the painting was a hundred times denser than the air in Draco's bedroom. "And where is your charming little curiosity zees evening?

"Why do you insist on calling her that?" Draco inquired.

"She is a sweet girl, but she must find some pleasure in suffering, I am thinking," Usille smiled, looking like she approved of this trait. She bit into an apple quarter and chewed slowly.

Usille had a unique perception of things. According to her, Hermione was something of a masochist to put up with Draco's questionable moods. And given that Usille had known Draco since he could walk, she had witnessed firsthand the amazing kaleidoscope that was his temperament.

"Your witch has captured her dragon, but she does not mean you harm. She has tamed you. In zat respect, I think she is much like me," said Usille.

"In what way?"

"Because I am... What is that word that you say, Draco? Je ne me souviens pas..."

"Mudblood," Draco assisted, remembering that _that_ was one of the few pieces of information he had managed to gather from the family annals. Usille had the misfortune of not being born into a wizarding family, which of course explained her intense fascination with blacksmithing.

She wrinkled her dainty nose at the offensive label. "Incorrigible boy."

"_Muggle_, then," said Draco, with a slight quirk of his lips.

"Yes. Muggle. We see things differently. We have..." she struggled to locate the phrase. "How do you say it, imagination? Even when it is hard, we can see what can be, what we can make if we desire it strong enough. Comprends-tu?"

Draco pondered this, recalling something Ginny Weasley had once said to him. "Might it be a case of Pureblood wizards not wanting to look beyond the length of their... wands, perhaps?"

Usille laughed, and it was the same delicate titter that her heard-but-never-seen children made. Draco watched as she fondled the dark pendant she wore at her throat. She raised her silvery to meet his slightly darker ones. The _wobblies_, Draco thought, as he felt the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand in frigid attention.

"I have not told you how I came to possess zees," she said, running an elegant, long-nailed fingertip across the dark stone.

She hadn't, and he had not asked her about it. But Draco knew the trinket to be terribly important to Usille. She never took it off, not even when she bathed.

Not that Draco made it a habit to watch her, after his initial fascination with the nude female form had worn off.

Actually, no, that was a lie.

"You love your little witch, yes? Like an illness of zee mind?"

Draco subdued a grimace. Hermione would have been most impressed with that line of logic. "Yes," he obliged, intrigued by the idea that Usille had finally decided to confide, after nearly a century of obsessive, brooding, sword making. "Like a brain fever," he added, just in case she doubted his sincerity.

"Then sit down, Draco. I want to tell you a story."

Chapter End Notes:

French courtesy of Dreamy_Delmos and Yamwam. Thanks a bunch, ladies.

_"De quoi penses-tu, Draco?"_ - What are you thinking, Draco

_"Forger les a33;pa33;es, a33;a prend du temps."_- Sword-making is time consuming work.

_"Je ne me souviens pas..."_- I can't remember

_"Comprends-tu?"_- Do you understand?


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Two: Encounters**

_But when a young lady is to be a heroine, the perverseness of forty surrounding families cannot prevent her. Something must and will happen to throw a hero in her way. _- Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

Ginny was the first one to notice him.

He looked harmless enough, like any other shopper passing through Diagon Alley on a Saturday morning. She didn't think it odd that he stopped in at Florean Fortescue's for an ice cream. Most people did when the weather was nice. And she was willing to chalk it up to coincidence when she saw him standing outside the entrance of Flourish and Blotts as they left with their purchases.

It was impossible to subdue her suspicions, however, when said young man entered Madame Vandemeer's lingerie parlour minutes after they did, and begin to examine the merchandise in the 'pre-teen' undergarments section.

Ginny hadn't been named the top reconnaissance scout in Dumbledore's Army for nothing. They were quite obviously being followed, and she could think of at least a dozen reasons why. It wasn't as if they were inconspicuous, she and Hermione. Theirs were recognised faces, and Hermione had been waylaid at least four times already by well-wishers and hand-shakers. Despite Ginny's proven talent for it, blending in was proving to be a hopeless task.

It had been busy week for everyone. As a bridesmaid for what had been dubbed by the press as 'The Wedding of the Century', Ginny had been assisting Hermione in any way she could. That afternoon, they were shopping for 'necessities', as Hermione called it.

Only Hermione would consider shopping a chore. Ginny had insisted on accompanying her, thinking that an excitable Lavender Brown, at loose at Vandemeer's was too much for Hermione to handle at that point.

"How's it coming along?" Ginny called, patiently, from outside the changing rooms.

Hermione nudged the door open, a frown marring the smoothness of her forehead. Despite being in the cubicle for ten minutes, she had yet to actually try anything on.

Madame Vandemeer herself had taken charge of bringing items for Hermione to sample. There was a great stack of lace, satin, leather, buckles, straps and an assortment of feathered slippers, transparent negligees and numerous other bits and bobs that could aptly be described as...

"Kinky _fluff_," huffed Hermione, looking offended by the sheer quantity of frivolity. "_All of it_. Why does everyone feel it's their personal responsibility to eradicate my so-called, bookish reputation?" She picked up a pair of maroon crotch-less panties and thrust them towards Ginny with an exasperated look.

Ginny grinned. It wasn't every day that the formidable Hermione Granger looked so uncertain over a task.

"What do you suppose this is for?" Hermione inquired, looking alarmed at the loop attachment on a leather merry widow, and the short riding crop that came with it.

"From the fetish section, probably," said Ginny distractedly, looking over her shoulder to check on the location of their stalker.

"This whole shop is one _big_ 'fetish section'," Hermione insisted, and then lowered her voice when a group of ladies entered the fitting area. "Why couldn't we just go into Gladrags like I suggested?"

Ginny sighed. For the smartest witch of their generation, Hermione was sometimes shockingly vague. "You can't wear Gladrags cotton underpants on your wedding night. Madame Vandemeer is the _best_," Ginny patiently explained. "Also, your fiancé has a personal account here for you and the bridesmaids."

Hermione's eyes widened with true fear. "Oh God. Do you mean I'll have to bring Lavender here?"

Ginny patted her friend on the shoulder. "Best you tell her the good news, before she reads it in a magazine."

Looking resigned, Hermione abandoned the merry widow and matching riding crop. She picked up the next item in the queue - a candy-stripped corset that was charmed with a strawberry and cream scent.

"Interesting specimen," said Hermione, leaning in for a tentative whiff.

Ginny inched closer, the amused look now wiped clean from her face. "Not as interesting as the man that's been following us all afternoon. Over _there_," she indicated, with a directional toss of her hair. "In the grey jacket and brown slacks, with the sandy hair."

Hermione stood on her toes to look over the saloon style doors of the changing cubicle. "Oh? The rather nice looking one, standing in the children's section?"

"Pre-teen section," Ginny corrected. But yes, Hermione was not wrong. He _was_ rather nice looking.

For an underwear-fondling pervert, she mentally corrected.

"Rather odd isn't it?" Hermione pondered.

"Well, I think so," Ginny agreed. "I've spotted him three times so far this morning."

Hermione squinted towards the direction of the stranger. "I mean, what is he doing in the pre-teen section, of all places? Most wizards won't come within a kilometer of a women's lingerie shop."

Ginny blinked. "I don't think that's quite the point..."

"It's probably just coincidence."

"And you're probably right," Ginny sighed. In hindsight, it was silly for her to worry Hermione. The girl had enough on her hands without worrying about overzealous celebrity stalkers.

She looked at the numerous garments hanging on the straining hook, awaiting Hermione's hesitant perusal. "Keep going. I'll be back."

Ginny waited until a group of chattering ladies had finished with their fittings, and followed them out as they exited the changing rooms. As quietly and discreetly as she could manage, she made her way through the colourful displays. Their stalker was at the opposite end of the shop, currently making a token effort of riffling through a rack of lacy singlets His eyes were trained on the changing rooms however, but it was obvious he had missed Ginny's departure.

Feeling her heart rate speed up, and smiling at the welcomed bit of excitement in what had otherwise been a very mundane week, Ginny crept up behind the unsuspecting stranger.

**

Ginevra Weasley was shorter than she looked in her pictures. Not that there were any good, clear photographs of her circulating in the press. She was very adept at staying out of the spotlight that was currently shining bright and strong over the group the wizarding world referred to as 'Dumbledore's Army'.

Jason had no idea how she managed this. Given the colour of her hair, Ginny ought to have stuck out in a crowd. But then, that was her talent, he supposed.

She had played a crucial part in the war effort against Voldemort, having compiled no less than a vault's worth of sensitive information concerning the activities of suspected Death Eaters. Her months in the field had provided the Army with the crucial evidence they were now using to bring many supposed 'fence sitters' to justice.

He had tracked Hermione Granger and Lavender Brown successfully through their pre-wedding errands in Hogsmeade Village the previous day. So far so good, Jason thought, feeling slightly smug. He wasn't on official assignment. In fact, he had 'stolen' his current assignment off one of his older brothers.

Their father would have a coronary if he knew, but Jason wasn't going to tell him. Not _yet_, anyhow. He had been working at his father's firm for a mind numbing six months, and had so far been denied any task that didn't involve filing a folder, answering Floo communications or making trips to the local coffee shop for takeaway cappuccinos.

It was damned frustrating being passed over for the more serious duties, which was exactly why he decided to take matters into his own hands and intercept a job. And not just _any_ job either.

The Malfoy account was important to his father, and it was going to be sweet vindication to report back to Graeme Stephenson, to announce a successful two days of trailing and protecting Hermione Granger.

Today, his famous mark was shopping with the Weasley girl, who Jason discovered he actually _liked_ watching.

He watched the diminutive Miss Weasley order an extra large, vanilla and pannacotta sundae at Florean Fortescue, and then watched with amusement as she demolished the teetering desert in less than three minutes, flat.

As Hermione Granger walked through what Jason silently described as the 'mouldy tome' section of Flourish and Blotts, Ginny Weasley tapped her foot by the newspaper stands, going straight to the moving cartoons sections and reading them with a small, smile and the occasional snigger.

And yet her attention never strayed too long from Hermione. Ginny's copper-coloured eyes would dart about the store every so often, checking on the whereabouts off her friend, before resuming her scan of the papers. Perhaps it was her small stature that enabled her to weave in and out of a crowd without great difficulty, but there was still the matter of her very bright, very noticeable head of hair.

Unlike Hermione, whose curls were modestly bundled into a loose twist at her nape, Ginny's short, chin length hair moved freely about her face. It fell into her eyes when she bent her head to read, and was constantly being re-tucked behind her ears. She was dressed in practical Muggle clothing - a rich, cream cardigan and worn jeans with and a brown silk scarf tied jauntily about her neck. Autumn colours suited her, Jason thought.

He had experienced a moment of apprehension when the women had walked into Madame Vandemeer's Exclusive Lingerie Parlour. Hiding among racks of panties and bras didn't exactly match his expectations of what the security business entailed. But he felt better knowing that had he not taken the assignment, his older brother, Alex, would have had a hell of a time.

Considering that Alex was nearly three times Jason's size, he would have stood out like a toadstool in a field of daisies.

Perhaps there was some other way he could meet Ginny Weasley, outside of work, of course. His father might have been able to arrange it, seeing as Graeme Stephenson often came into contact with Arthur Weasley. Both men were members of 'Wizards for the Advanced Study of Muggle Artefacture' (Arthur belonged to the British chapter, while Graeme was president of the American branch). The two men were absolutely obsessed with Muggle inventions, and were currently attending a two-week tour of Muggle museums back home in the States.

Jason was idling over how he would broach the subject with his father, when he felt something hard and sharp jab roughly into the small of his back.

**

"Go with blue," Ginny said, as she dug the tip of her wand into the man's spine. "Cerise isn't quite your colour."

She might have found his reaction amusing, if she weren't feeling slightly homicidal towards the man. Dropping the bright pink camisole he had been absently fingering, the stranger spun around, staring down at Ginny with a stunned expression and the most brilliant, turquoise eyes she had ever seen on a person.

"Damn," he said. "_Damn, damn, damn!_"

An American, Ginny noted, recognising the accent (even if he had only said the one word over and over). Not wanting to waste any time, seeing as Hermione would probably be finished in the changing rooms at any minute, she called out to Madame Vandemeer.

At the sight of a man being held at wand point, several other shoppers shrieked and hurried over to the opposite end of the shop. Madame Vandemeer herself stopped in the middle of wrapping up purchases in pink tissue. She looked at Ginny with a concerned expression on her heavily rouged face.

"Miss Weasley, do you require assistance?"

Ginny smiled at the woman. "You have a fireplace in the shop, yes?"

"I do," said Vandemeer, holding a manicured hand to her throat.

"Would you be so kind as to contact Harry Potter? You'll be able to reach him at 12, Grimmauld Place, London."

Vandemeer, her face now as white as elf-laundered sheets, was already hurrying to her back office. Ginny meanwhile, had wrapped a hand around Jason's elbow. The business end of her wand was still attempting to gouge itself into his ribs.

"Come along then," said Ginny.

Jason groaned. He was a dead man.

**

And so it was, on that Saturday afternoon, that Harry Potter was contacted by a Madame Marta Vandemeer, _'procurer of ladies underthings and other naughty knick-knacks'_, at his home in London.

Upon being informed that his on-again, off-again love interest (Ginny) and his best friend and speculated love interest (Hermione), were being "harassed and attacked" by a male assailant in Madame Vandemeer's Exclusive Lingerie Parlour, Harry Apparated into Diagon Alley with three Auror companions, a pair of Reduced shackles and hell's fury on his face.

Hermione, having been plied with no less than a dozen different garments by a resourceful Ginny, was still obliviously festooned in the changing rooms. Vandemeer and her shop assistants were charged with the task of keeping her there, at all costs.

While the three Aurors stood guard outside the back office, Jason was summarily dragged inside by Harry, and pushed into a chair.

Harry felt he might have looked more intimidating, if he weren't still dressed in his renovation clothes. Now that he had the time, he was putting 12, Grimmauld Place through a manor-wide makeover, starting with the attic. He had been adding a second coat of paint on the walls, when Dobby had informed him of the urgent Floo message.

In truth, Harry had been expected a motley-looking individual, a slightly off-balance, overeager, sweaty palmed, fan. But the girls' apparent stalker looked to be about his age, probably younger, was well-dressed and-

"Hey, watch the suit!"

_American._

"Who are you?" snapped Harry. "And don't bother lying, because if you've been reading the papers, you'll know that I'm dangerously unstable and am liable to Stupefy you as soon as look at you." Harry's slightly resigned tone of voice was at odds with his threat. But Jason decided he wasn't about to test that theory.

With practiced ease, Harry shackled Jason's ankles to the legs of the chair. His wand remained un-drawn, and for that Jason was thankful. He looked up to find Harry peering at him with curious, forest-green eyes. The famous spectacles seemed to be missing.

"My name is Jason Stephenson," said Jason. "I work for my father's security firm, Stephenson & Stephenson. Our agents were hired by Draco Malfoy to provide security for his fiancé, Miss Granger."

"Let me get this straight," Harry began, "you work for Draco?"

"My father does. We received a Floo Communication yesterday afternoon. Mr. Malfoy requested a guard to escort Miss Granger on her errands. Unknown to Miss Granger, of course."

Harry was toying with a paint stain on the sleeve of his flannel shirt. "And you're the guard that was sent?"

Jason bristled. It was damned galling to be made out by a girl, even if it was Ginny Weasley, scout extraordinaire. And here he was, in a women's lingerie store, being grilled by a paint-splattered, extremely annoyed, Harry Potter. His father was going to have his balls in a vise. Failing that, his brother Alex was probably going to hang him from a tree by his bootstraps.

"Look, I just started with the firm six months ago. A more senior agent, one of my older brothers, was supposed to take yesterday's and this morning's job, but I kinda...well I picked up the message and took off," Jason said, sheepishly.

Harry raised an eyebrow at this. He turned to Ginny, who had been standing at the doorway. She had overheard the express interrogation and was regarding Jason with an expression that might have been interested sympathy. Harry's mood was not improved by this.

"Where's Hermione?" Harry asked Ginny.

"In the changing rooms."

"She's not going to like this," Harry surmised, running a hand through his hair.

"That's a moot point because we're not going to tell her," Ginny said calmly.

"Like hell we're not."

Jason cleared his throat. "Miss Granger has no idea about the surveillance. That was Mr. Malfoy's specific intent. I'd be real grateful if you didn't blow the job for us..."

Ginny's eyebrows snapped together. "Use your head Harry. Draco's got a lot of problems, not the least of which is that he can't trust his fiancé to look after herself. This isn't worth causing them grief three weeks before the wedding. It's Draco's fault he hired a really crap bodyguard."

Jason glared. "Hey-"

"_You_ be quiet," Harry warned.

"Don't tell her. All will be well, _trust me_," Ginny insisted.

Harry rubbed his chin. "I don't like that Malfoy's keeping secrets from her. I'm going to have to talk with him."

"Excuse me," interrupted a breathy voice from outside the doorway. "Miss Granger is just about finished," informed Madame Vandemeer. She was looking at Harry as if she had never seen an unshaven, unkempt, all-powerful, vanquisher of evil, megalomaniacal wizards in the flesh.

Or possibly because she had never seen checked flannel paired with plaid, sweat pants.

"You know, I haven't seen Hermione since the engagement announcement," Harry admitted.

Ginny waved a hand dismissively. "Yes, well you haven't seen me in that long either. She'll survive. You have to go. If she catches you here, she'll start wondering."

"What about him?" Harry asked. Both Harry and Ginny turned to look at Jason, who scowled back at them.

Ginny shrugged. "Not my problem. Let him go or take him with you."

Harry pondered this. It might not have been obvious, but he was calculating the length of time it would take for him to detour at Malfoy Manor and be back at Grimmauld Place in time to check on his paintwork.

The stalker issue was a false alarm, obviously, but for a moment there, Harry had understood Draco's concern. Over was over. But there would always be dark street corners and unsavoury people with hidden agendas. Ginny was as capable a female as he was ever likely to know.

Still, all it took was a turned back, a lapse in attention and, well...

Wizards were hardy survivors, but they were not immortal. He was going to have a talk with Draco all right, but not for the reasons Ginny might have assumed.

"Fine. I'll drop him off at Malfoy's on the way. Finite Incantatum," said Harry absently, without a wand. The shackles fell away from Jason's ankles.

"Thanks," said a duly impressed Jason, rising to his feet. Harry walked ahead with Ginny, but Jason paused at the doorway.

He had caught sight a bit of brown material on the floor just inside the office. It was the silk scarf Ginny had been wearing around her neck. Very quickly, Jason scooped the silk into his hand, holding it for a moment before putting it into his jacket pocket.

The other patrons were making a wide berth around Harry, the Aurors, and Ginny as they gathered in the middle of the shop. Several younger women were grinning widely. A matronly witch came forward and caught Harry in a jostling hug.

"Good lad," she said, sniffling noisily. "You're all good, _good_ lads."

Harry, looking slightly ruffled, cleared his throat and muttered his usual "really, you don't have to thank me" spiel which he thought he could probably recite it in his sleep by now. He spoke softly to the Aurors, who nodded and immediately exited the shop without a word. Finally, he gave Ginny a long, parting glance, before placing one hand on Jason's shoulder.

The two men vanished in the space of a heartbeat.

Not two minutes later, Hermione emerged from the fitting rooms. Her hair was slightly mussed, her cheeks were pink, and she was carrying an armload of delicate, new undergarments.

"I'll take four sets. And the chemise," she informed Madame Vandemeer, whom Hermione noticed, was looking rather peaky. The woman seemed to be having trouble keeping her ring-bedecked hands steady, as she rang up the purchases.

Hermione shot Ginny a curious look, but the younger girl merely shrugged.

**

Jason had never attempted it before, but he was surprised to discover that it felt quite different when you were hitching a Disapparation with someone else. Or, it might have just been the fact that the someone else happened to be Harry Potter.

He was slightly disoriented when they touched down at what Harry informed him to be Malfoy Manor. Jason opened his eyes and was startled to find that his vision was tinged with blue.

Thinking that it was a temporary side-effect of the Disapparation, he waited a minute, rubbed his eyes, and then opened them again.

No, still blue. An odd, shimmering blue. It was like standing in front of wall of water.

Jason frowned. He took a step forward, only to be yanked back in place by Harry.

"We're in a Containment spell," said Harry, indicating the rippling blue mist that surrounded them. "Step outside that barrier and you're dust." Harry looking entirely too relaxed to be talking about irreversible molecular annihilation. Jason wondered what it took these days to get Harry Potter antsy. On second thought, he didn't think he wanted to know.

Jason sent Harry a questioning look. "Don't Containment wards only work with Perimeter Barriers?"

Perimeter Barriers spells were nasty things. Every year, dozens of people who had the misfortune of Apparating when drunk got themselves splinched by accidentally appearing inside a Barrier. Schools had taken to launching, 'Drink and Apparate and you're a Bloody Idiot!' campaigns to warn senior students of the dangers.

"Yup," said Harry, pulling his famous glasses out of his shirt pocket and slipping them on.

"Then how the hell did we Apparate _into_ Malfoy's house in one piece?" Jason asked incredulously.

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by another male voice.

"Because he's Harry Potter, and there hasn't been a Barrier spell or Containment ward that he hasn't been able to break." Draco Malfoy was standing at the top of the foyer steps, dressed in black flying robes and looking slightly sooty.

"_Yet_," he added, before walking down the steps.

"Getting better, Malfoy. I had to actually concentrate on that one, what with Stephenson here tagging along," Harry returned, too cheerfully. "By the way, I hear he's one of yours?"

Jason knew what Draco Malfoy looked like of course, everyone did. But he wasn't quite prepared to meet the man in the flesh.

Harry Potter looked exactly like his pictures, a thin, moody looking young man with a shock of unruly dark hair, deep green eyes and a quiet, unassuming demeanour. While Harry's eyes carried an odd sort of unpredictable intensity (probably fuelling the 'unstable' and 'unbalanced' rumour mills), Malfoy's silver eyes were completely unreadable, which in fact was a great deal more alarming. You couldn't have placed two more different men together, and yet, they seem to complement each other.

Harry embodied everything that was bright, vital and potent about magic, while Malfoy filled in magic's darker spaces, its more ambiguous motives. The papers said that they were not friends, but they didn't seem to harbour any obvious ill will toward each other.

There was history there, of course, canyons of it.

_Pureblood_, Jason thought, as he looked at Draco, realising that he was staring at the last remaining specimen of one of the oldest wizarding families on the planet. Generations of selective breeding had culminated in the tall, lanky young man standing before him. If the base elements of magic did indeed flow through the blood of wizards, then wizards ought to have looked like Draco Malfoy.

It was hard to picture the pretty, warm, Hermione Granger with this glacial, young man. No wonder the gossip was so malicious. It was like a lioness taking up with an adder.

Draco was now standing before Harry and Jason. He passed a hand in front of the Containment field, at which point the blue mist surrounding Jason and Harry dissipated in the air like scentless cigarette smoke.

"Jason Stephenson, I presume," Draco inquired, in a polite tone that fooled no one.

Jason was bright enough to recognise an extremely angry wizard when he saw one. "My father's been in contact with you, I take it?"

Malfoy didn't answer him immediately. When he did, his voice had taken on a bored tone. "One of Potter's Aurors paid your father a visit not five minutes ago, whereupon your father immediately came to see me at my London office," Draco explained. "He is currently pacing a hole into my office rug. You might have got away with all of this if Ginny Weasley hadn't made you out." There was just a hint of amusement in Draco's voice, but this was completely at odds with the vein that was throbbing steadily in his temple.

"Tell me, Jason. Do you know who I am?"

Harry, who had been busy inspecting the newly installed Manor telephone, made an impatient sound. Draco ignored him

. "Yeah, of course I do," said Jason, anticipating a tongue lashing at any moment. He couldn't picture Draco Malfoy actually hitting anyone in the face, although he knew the man was capable of much, much worse.

"Then you know that I don't take lightly to my orders being countermanded. Especially when they concern the safety and well-being of my fiancé and her friends." Draco's voice had been reduced to a sliver of a whisper, but it was anything but mild.

"Let it go, Malfoy," Harry said quietly.

Draco's eyes flicked briefly to the Boy Who Lived, before settling once again on Jason, who in turn tried not to flinch at the change he saw in them. It was like looking into the eye of a storm - complete calm and quiet at the innermost depths, when mayhem and violence thrashed just in the periphery.

Perhaps he would get decked in the face after all.

But then, the same maddeningly calm manner of speech continued. "Count yourself lucky that I consider your father to be more of a friend that an employee. The order with Stephenson & Stephenson will stand as before, but if I ever catch you attempting to play boy hero within ten yards of Hermione Granger, I'll have your wand, and then I'll have your head. Are we in agreement?"

Jason had to grit his teeth to keep from retorting. Malfoy was an arrogant son of a bitch. A none-too-subtle cough from Harry jarred him into accepting the hand that Draco was holding out.

Jason shook it. Too hard, but Malfoy seemed to be expecting this.

"Good," said Draco, his mood transforming from murderous to mild in an instant. All in all, it was a chilling presentation. Jason looked at Harry, who met his incredulous look with amused understanding.

"You have my thanks, Potter." Draco told Harry.

Harry waved a hand dismissively. "Not a problem. Henson and Dibsey are watching the girls for the rest of the day. I can't say I approve of your tactics, but I can't fault your reasons for doing it. I wish I'd thought of it first."

Draco said nothing to this. He was now looking distracted, apparently just noticing Harry's choice of outfit for the day. "Good heaven's Potter. Have you finally gone and done it?"

"Done what?" asked Harry, looking both annoyed and wary.

"Run off and joined the Muggle circus," Draco responded, starting in silent fascination at Harry's colourful ensemble.

"Better a clown than a ponce, at any rate," Harry muttered. "And you're leaving black marks all over your nice floor," he pointed out, looking at the trail of soot that Draco's boots had left on the white marble.

"I travelled by Floo to get here, and unfortunately the fireplace at my London office hasn't been used in a long while," Draco lamented. "You're still working on Grimmauld Place?"

"Been at it for a month now. It's coming along nicely," Harry said, looking cheered at the prospect of returning to his current, favourite pastime.

"I hear the Floo connection there is the sharpest in the country," Draco said. He had never been inside Grimmauld Place. Despite having Black blood, the house wouldn't let Draco any further than the front step, no matter what commands Harry threw at it. It was a lesson in humility for Malfoy to have to sit outside on the doorstep when he accompanied Hermione on her visits to see Harry.

Jason stood there, listening to the two men banter on about Floo connections, fireplaces, plasterwork, plumbing and other household maintenance issues. It was bizarre to think that they had gone from threats of beheading, to talk of home renovations, in the space of a minute. It was as his father often said, _"Those Dumbledore Army types don't all operate with a full deck of cards."_

"Will you be Apparating to London? Or flying?" Harry was asking Draco, looking pointedly at his flying robes.

Draco shook his head. "Flooing unfortunately. I'll be taking Stephenson back with me. His father would like a word with him."

Jason was grateful that neither Draco nor Harry saw the need to pass further comment on his spectacular bungle that afternoon.

"What do you fly?" Jason asked.

Draco stared at him, and Jason belatedly wondered that perhaps their previous handshake did not extend to cordial chitchat. But then, Draco answered. "A Scorpion Sting."

Harry whistled. "Waste of a good broom."

"Yes, and we all know how well matched you are to your Firebolt, Potter," Draco replied smoothly.

Jason grinned. It was common knowledge that Harry Potter was still flying the same broom since he was thirteen. Sentimental attachment was a gross understatement. The Firebolt was a sound broom, of course. But there were much better, faster, models on the market. The Scorpion Sting was a prime example. If both brooms were ever put to the contest, the Sting would have left the Firebolt for dead.

Although it would have been an interesting match-up, what with Harry's talent on a broom.

"Shall we?" Draco asked Jason. "Don't want to prolong the inevitable."

That much was true. Jason sighed.

"I'll be seeing you on the twenty-first," Harry told Draco. "Nice to have met you, Jason," Harry waggled his fingers in goodbye, before Disapparating.

The twenty-first, Jason recalled, was the date of the Malfoy Bachelor Party, and it was with some relief to know that Stephenson & Stephenson still had the security assignment.

"One wonders if Grimmauld Place lacks mirrors," Draco was muttering, as he led Jason up the stairs, through a maze-like series of corridors. "Thank God for school uniforms, with Potter's fashion sense most of us would have poked our eyes out years ago."

They walked past numerous doors, an indoor greenhouse which was overgrown with weeds and flowers, and then came to another set of stairs and climbed those. Jason idly wondered if internal Apparition was also regulated by Perimeter spells. Otherwise, rich Pureblood wizards were liable to spend most of their spare time simply walking around their manors.

Finally, after rounding another corridor which looked slightly less dusty than the others, they entered what Jason assumed was Draco's personal quarters.

Draco turned to him as he shut the bedroom door behind them, a purposeful look on his pale face. "Take your jacket off."

Jason blinked at him. "Uh…"

"Don't get ideas, Stephenson," snapped Malfoy. "You're a pretty boy but I'm afraid my dance card is full at present. The fireplace on the other end is not designed for Flooing. Your exit will be made easier without the added bulk."

"Oh," Jason said, wondering at what point that day the earth was going to hurry up and swallow him. "Wouldn't it be easier if I just Apparate to your office?" Jason ventured.

"From Malfoy Manor, without being a Malfoy?" Draco said. "Give me half an hour to take down all the wards and then you may _try_, by all means."

Jason waited.

Draco rolled his eyes. "That was sarcasm."

"Oh."

"Your father, for all his bluster, is awfully fond of you and I would like to return his youngest son in one piece, preferably. So I repeat, remove your jacket."

Jason did as requested, and was just about to ask what the Floo command was, when he noticed that Draco was staring fixedly at Jason's folded jacket. To be precise, he was staring at Ginny Weasley's scarf, which had partially worked its way out of the breast pocket.

Draco was eyeing the item with a curious expression. "That belongs to Ginny Weasley."

"I know. She dropped it at Madame Vandemeers. I'm going to return it to her."

For a moment, it looked as if Jason was going to escape further questioning, but then Draco added, "Of all the witches in the world to steal from, you pick Ginny Weasley. I happen to know she's very fond of that scarf."

Jason had had quite enough of being lectured that day. "How the hell do you know so much about what Ginny Weasley likes and doesn't like?" he barked. He didn't like the amused expression Malfoy was currently sending his way.

"I always remember silk on a woman," Draco shrugged. "She belongs to Potter. I hope you realise that."

"Ginny Weasley doesn't strike me as the kind of girl who'd 'belong' to anyone. And if I'm not mistaken, I think the common consensus is that Potter's missed the boat."

"Potter's amazing stupidity notwithstanding, the girl _is_ his match. Whatever else comes between them are cracks in the pavement. They've chosen each other regardless of their differences."

"That's an amazingly archaic, and not to mention impossible view of relationships, don't you think?" Jason retorted.

"I know a bit about maintaining impossible relationships," Draco said quietly.

"Malfoy, are you officially discouraging me from pursuing Ginny Weasley?" Jason didn't see how his interest in Ginny was any of Draco Malfoy's snooty business.

"Not at all," Draco enthused, in a jaunty voice. He patted Jason lightly on the shoulder, as he nudged him towards the fireplace. "Just checking to see if you understood what Harry Potter is capable of, is all. Horribly boring individual. Terrible conversationalist. S'got the personality of a door stop, really. But when it comes to aggressive magic, Jason," Draco paused, "there isn't another human on the planet to match him. The Floor command is Malfoy Enterprises, London Division," he informed, effectively halting whatever Jason was about to say. "It was nice to meet you."

A moment later, Jason exited Draco's London Office fireplace, looking sooty and livid. He was greeted by the stern, bearded face of Graeme Stephenson, looming menacingly over him.

As bad as it had already been, his day was about get a whole lot worse.

**

True to her word, Hermione Disapparated that evening from her grandmother's country home, to Malfoy Manor. Her shopping expedition with Ginny that afternoon had been fruitful. They had left Diagon Alley with a bag of books from Flourish and Blotts, and a large parcel of undergarments from Madame Vandemeer's. Hermione's elegant, silver-haired, grandmother had been most approving of her grand-daughter's selections.

Iris had been a respected barrister in her time. She had chosen to leave the stresses of city life behind her once Hermione's grandfather had passed on, opting to settle in a small country home.

Some of Hermione's fondest memories from when she was growing up involved attending the delightful luncheons her grandmother would host. Iris made a point of keeping in contact with her old university chums, and when they got together, the ladies were terribly good fun.

It had taken a few years for Iris to come to terms with the fact that her grand- daughter was a witch (along with being informed that there was an entire society of magical people living alongside non-magic folk). _"Really? The child of dentists?"_ Iris would often muse, to Hermione's mother.

Her grandmother had held a dinner party that evening, and it had been a while since Hermione had been able to socialise with complete anonymity. She conversed with retired lawyers, schoolteachers, a Member of Parliament, farmers and other people in wonderfully normal occupations.

She drank chardonnay, introduced herself to people who only knew her as Iris' grand-daughter and spoke about her work as an historian (Iris figured nobody was likely to request elaboration on this) and her impending marriage to a 'nice, boy from London' (many amused glances were shared between Iris and Hermione).

Her grandmother kept country hours, and given that many of the guests had to drive back to their city homes, the party had wrapped up close to seven o'clock that evening.

Irish had taken one look at Hermione's restless, distracted fidgeting, and had practically put her wand in her hand and told her to go to Draco.

Which was how Hermione came to Apparate directly into Draco's bedroom that evening.

There was always a slight fear that the Perimeter Barriers would forget that they were to allow her unrestricted entry. It was with some relief that Hermione opened her eyes to find her body intact and in one piece. Although really, if her arse had been attached to her front, she wouldn't have known anyway, due to the darkness of Draco's bedroom.

Trying to make as little noise as possible proved to be a hard task, seeing as Hermione could hardly see where she was going. She worked off her memory, knowing where the dresser was located, knowing that Draco's desk was against the wall to her left. She forgot about the chair however, and walked straight into it. Wincing, she bent down to rub at her shins.

The fire was out and the drapes were drawn. The only light in the room came from a sliver of moonlight that sliced through the edges of the drapes, settling across the figure that was lying unmoving on the bed.

He must have been exhausted, Hermione thought, as she kicked off her heels. Draco didn't usually get to bed until well after midnight.

Once her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she saw that her fiancé was sprawled on his stomach, his heard pillowed on a forearm. His other arm was flung wide, one hand dangling over the edge of the mattress. What she had first thought to be white pyjamas, was in fact Draco's skin. He was sleeping bare-chested. The sheets rested at low, hip level, just enough to reveal that he was not wearing any pajamas bottoms, either.

Now _this_ was unusual. A pleasant surprise, but still unusual.

Hermione was tempted to crawl into bed, dressed, as she was in a black crepe, cocktail ensemble. But the thought of laying against Draco's exceedingly smooth skin with the thin fabric of her dress separating them, was too much to contend with at that point.

Instead, she stripped down to her underwear. With the sort of hysterical glee one experienced when stepping into a delightfully warm bed in freezing weather, she approached and sat gingerly on the edge of the mattress. Draco didn't stir, and his breathing remained deep and even.

Surprising an obviously knackered Draco probably wasn't the best idea, but Hermione was in a mood to indulge herself. She liked watching him sleep, and the chance to do so was made all the more rare, due to Draco being such a light sleeper.

He wasn't comfortable with open affection, and this suited Hermione just fine, as she wasn't an overly demonstrative person herself. Nevertheless, it took willpower not to take it personally, when Draco would delicately extricate his hand from hers when she absently held it sometimes. Hermione knew she liked to fidget. She was used to having a book on hand to read, or a quill to jot something down, or a diary or timetable to consult. In the absence of these devices, she would touch Draco, and it would usually be a case of him catching her hands and returning them to her.

Draco never indulged in superfluous motions. He undertook most tasks with a maddening precision, from the way he dressed in the morning (Merlin help her if she interrupted _this_ clockwork routine), to the way he ate, conducted business or flew his broom. It stung more that she would have liked to admit, and added to the multitude of things about Draco that made her stay up late at night, thinking.

But he wasn't always like this. Ironically, it was also in the late hours of the night that he revealed another side of himself. Draco was a person of great passion, but most of it was dark and closely guarded. It was the same sort of fierce drive and ambition that made Muggle artists produce masterpieces.

But in Draco's hands, his passions were put into other causes, like the war, for example. His late entry into the war effort might have been what tipped the scales in their favour. Hermione often wondered why Dumbledore had agreed to Draco's request to take over where Snape had left off. It was akin to signing away a person's youth or innocence.

He had joined their side in the middle of their sixth year. Most of the other Army members had been extremely skeptical. But it was difficult not to notice the marked change that had taken place in Draco over the holidays. Everyone had been quick to speculate. Trouble at home, parents separating, abuse, financial problems, relationship problems, had all been the common suggestions.

_"Gay probably, and Lucius is threatening to disown,"_ Ron had once snarked.

But, Hermione didn't think it was quite as simple as that. Rather, she thought Draco might have reached the age where logic had caught up with lifestyle. He hadn't been the only Slytherin to realise that the path of the noble, wizarding Pureblood wasn't quite as straight and narrow as they believed.

Draco's sense of order was ill suited to the destructive chaos that Voldermort was preaching. He had made a choice over the holidays, and the only real mystery left at that time, in Hermione's opinion, was whether he had revealed said choice to his parents.

Hermione remembered passing him in the corridors one afternoon, and inwardly bracing herself for whatever nasty quip he would usually toss in her direction, but that day, he hadn't even _seen_ her. He had simply walked pass, moving closer against the wall to give Hermione and her book bag more room, and kept right on moving.

Their interactions in class remained the same, however. Hermione attempted to answer most questions, while Draco sat back with his hands folded, giving her an annoying, _"I know the answers but you don't see me sticking my hand in the air like a ninny"_, look.

Ron told her she was being overly sensitive about Draco's new disdainful attitude towards her. He had assumed that Hermione had been angry because she thought Draco no longer thought her worthy enough to taunt.

Draco had been an exceptional student, and apart from Padma Patil, he was the only other major contender for top ranking student. It became a silent battle to see who got better marks in assessments. Hermione would glance across the classroom at Draco when homework and assessments were handed back, to attempt to gauge his expression. This proved to be a futile exercise, for the most part. He gave nothing away. She continued this subtle monitoring until one day, Draco had looked back at her and with a smug, half-smirk, and had held up his freshly marked Charms Exam, displaying the bright, red, 120% for her to see.

She didn't look at him in class from that day onwards. But it wasn't as it he suffered from a lack of interested attention. It was almost impossible not to notice that he had grown into himself so well, although some girls found him too blond for their tastes. The girls in their year hadn't been so affected, seeing as they had all known Draco when he had been a short, squeaky-voiced, tatter tailing, bigoted, snob (you had to admit, these traits were sometimes hard to forget).

The younger girls were different. They tittered in corners, oohed and aahed at every match he played and sent him shy, surreptitious glances from across the Great Hall. Harry was no stranger to this sort of attention either, but while girls were confident enough to approach a usually amiable Harry, nobody bothered Draco. They may have found him pleasing to look at, but they also found him too sharp for their liking.

For such a blond person, Draco had rather dark eyelashes, while his eyebrows were a shade in between. His lashes rested on his cheekbones, long and lightly curled. They interrupted the clean line of his profile, from forehead to nose. His slightly parted lips did the same from nose to chin.

Suspended by a bittersweet cloud of memories, Hermione reached out to push a lock of Draco's long hair from his forehead. No sooner had she laid her fingers on him did she find herself thrown backwards down on the bed, one steely, sleep-warmed hand clamping over her neck and upper chin, a thumb pressed against a tendon in the side of her neck.

With a startled squeak, she slapped him on the shoulder.

He released her.

"Hermione, you idiot," Draco hissed, calling the lights on. As the much welcomed flow of oxygen returned to her brain, Hermione was aware of his hair tickling her face as he bent over her, inspecting what was surely going to be a bruised neck. She smiled at him despite his murderous expression, thinking that had most definitely been caught off guard to call her 'Hermione'.

"What are you playing at? I could have killed you!" he seethed. He pulled her up into a sitting position. None to gently, she noted, with a grimace.

Hermione massaged her neck. "You _really_ have to work on that. You can't go around trying to choke anyone who happens to wake you."

Draco glared at her. A few of tufts of hair were sticking straight up in the air. Hermione thought he looked like a very sleepy, very blond, hedgehog.

"I told you never to surprise me."

"It's hardly my fault you were surprised. I wasn't exactly quiet when I came in here." She looked towards the doorway, where she had dropped her shoes, and then at the chair that was sitting at an odd angle from where she had walked into it.

Draco rubbed at his eyes. "I don't remember falling asleep."

Hermione was sympathetic. "I told you to get some sleep. You looked exhausted when I left you yesterday morning," she told him.

"Still am," Draco admitted. He looked at Hermione. "You said you were staying at your grandmother's tonight."

"I am, but the party finished early. I got through Gran's entire collection of 'Town and Country' by nine o'clock. Mum's coming over for breakfast in the morning, so we're good as long as I leave here early."

The sudden change that came over Draco was mesmerizing. A slow, sleepy and extremely endearing smile stretched across his face. Hermione thought that it was mortally unfair that dressed only in a sheet and a sleep-mussed head of hair, he still looked a good deal more groomed that she had in her smart, cocktail dress.

"And what time does Gran have breakfast in the morning?" Draco asked, in a languorous tone.

Hermione knew where this was going, of course, but it was still loads of fun to feign ignorance. He slid further up under the sheet and made a space for her beside him.

"About seven," she revealed, allowing herself to be pulled up against the pillows. "She's keeping chickens now. Gets up to early to feed them."

"Chickens, eh?" Draco asked. His long fingers were already making quick work of the fastenings of her brassier. Hermione didn't normally need to wear a bra, seeing as God had seen fit to give her less than an ample bounty of bosoms, but the dress had been rather form fitting, necessitating a strapless brassier. Draco was always pleased when he had more things to take off her. He was strange like that.

"She used to have an old Clydesdale as well, but she didn't have the energy to look after him. Old Jim got given away last August."

"Went to a good home, then?"

"Yes. A lovely, old couple down the road took him." Hermione sucked in a breath as Draco's mouth fastened on the side of her neck. He blew hot, moist air over her skin, moving down to her collarbone to place small, sharp bites along her shoulder.

"I like horses," Hermione revealed, barely recognising her own voice.

Draco paused to look at her, a humorous smile on his lips. "You know, I do have a stable," he said. He slid his large hands under her neck and tipped her head back to kiss her. The sheets twisted around his lower half as he moved on top of her.

Hermione waited until he had released her mouth. He tasted mildly of peppermint, which probably meant he had forgone dinner again and raided the box of ancient mint chocolates that was left in the pantry.

"Do you, now?"

"I do. I'll take you riding."

"When?" Hermione asked, before pulling his mouth back to her by tugging on his hair.

"Tomorrow," Draco said, against her lips. "Whenever you want."

Hermione was smoothing her hands across his back. "Liar. You have a meeting first thing in the morning."

Draco rolled off her, pulling her against him in a spooning position. "Who works on a Sunday?" he asked, untangling his legs from the sheets.

The heat coming off him was incredible. Hermione sighed, and wriggled her bottom closer into the curve of his body. "_You_ work on a Sunday."

He passed a splayed hand over her breasts, finally coming to a stop over her stomach. "Perhaps I should call in sick?"

"It _is_ your company."

"Precisely," said Draco, as he caressed the smooth curve of Hermione's belly. He took her earlobe in his mouth and dipped a fingertip into her navel.

Hermione's toes curled. "Yes," she agreed, in a whisper. "Call in sick. Tell Zabini you have a serious illness and require two weeks at home to recuperate. She's your second in charge, she can handle things for a while."

"And what shall I do at home for two weeks?"

"Give me riding lessons."

Draco laughed. He actually threw his head back and chuckled. Hermione felt the laugh reverberate through his chest. It was a gratifying sound. He was stroking her cheek now. "You know, I gave your mother my word that I wouldn't have you again until after we were married."

Hermione groaned.

"But I am in such a mood to break promises," Draco whispered against the back of her neck.

Indeed he was. The evidence of his 'promise breaking intent' was pushing most insistently against her back. He ran a hand down her side, past her waist, finally resting it on her hip. His thumb traced circles on her skin.

"You don't usually sleep in the nude," Hermione commented as Draco's hand moved over her hip, sliding into the waistband of her underwear. "I'm not sure I approve," she teased.

"Yes, I can feel your intense disapproval right now."

His wonderful, blessed fingers were making a familiar, learned pattern on her very sensitive skin. Hermione's breathing hitched. She closed her eyes and stretched an arm out behind her head, to grab at the back of Draco's neck.

"There is more to my nakedness than meets the eyes," Draco was saying. "Perhaps, in an effort to alleviate my loneliness, I took matters into my own hands."

Hermione giggled. The bad puns were coming fast and hard that evening.

The thought of Draco settling back into his indecently large bed, to engage in some much needed 'stress relief' sent heat flushing through Hermione's body. Attending a co-educational boarding school had made her quite knowledgeable about the issue of male masturbation. The boys were always full of cringe-worthy stories about fellow dorm-mates being caught in compromising positions. Hermione was a practical sort, and knew that teenage male masturbation was a requisite part of life, but she had never thought of it as something to fantasize about.

Until now, of course. Oh my.

The vivid image of Draco nude in his bed, was replaced with one of Draco in his Slytherin uniform, green and silver tie askew, fly undone and eyes closed. This image was soon juxtaposed with one of Draco in his Quidditch leathers, hair slicked back with sweat after a game, cheeks flushed, fly undone...

"Stop," Hermione said, screwing her eyes shut.

Draco obliged by stilling his hand. He pulled it up and rested it against her stomach once more. "A pleasant kind of agony, isn't it?"

Pleasant? She felt like she was about to spontaneously combust and ruin his expensive bed linen.

He turned her over, so that she was facing him. She was still for a few minutes, but then began to run her fingers over his eyebrows. He captured her hand and put them under the sheets. Hermione didn't need to be told twice.

He was in a state that Hermione had once heard Lavender describe as 'set to let'. The tip of him was slick and swollen. Draco bit his lower lip as Hermione rubbed her thumb over him.

Hermione looked troubled. "I need to have a long talk with my mother."

"She's testing me," Draco said, sucking in a tight breath as Hermione wrapped her hand around him and squeezed. "And I mean to pass."

"Do you always have to keep your promises?"

"No. But I have a weakness for Granger women, apparently. Marry me Draco, let's have a big wedding, Draco. Draco, why don't you make friends with Harry? Don't sleep with my daughter until you're married, Draco. Draco, can I have an autographed pair of your underpants?"

Hermione smiled against his throat. She was working him steadily under the sheets, enjoying the way his eyes closed and the way his brow furrowed ever so slightly. "Hey, I raised fourteen hundred galleons at the Army charity auction with those boxers."

Draco's attention was elsewhere. After a minute or two of uneven breathing, he gritted his teeth and covered her small hand with his much larger one. "Ok. Your turn to _stop_."

Hermione ceased. "Someone's going to have to give tonight," she reminded him. "Or we're both going to be very cranky at work on Monday."

"Yes, Granger. I'm counting on that. But being an organised sort of person yourself, I'm sure you'll approve of order."

"We'll take it in turns," he suggested.

The clock on the mantelpiece announced that it was nine thirty. Provided she set aside an hour to get showered and dressed before Disapparating back to her grandmother's, Hermione calculated that they had at least seven, uninterrupted hours.

Yes, she thought, as Draco rolled her onto her back and began to make a slow slide down her pliable body. A pleasant agony indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part Three: Plans**

"Do you reckon he'll notice?"

Fred Weasley eyed his younger brother. "Yes, Ron. I think Draco will notice that the waitresses will be wearing Slytherin school robes."

"You mean _abbreviated_ version of Slytherin school robes," George interjected.

"Do you think he'll mind is a more pertinent question," Ron stated.

Ginny rolled her eyes. She had done this numerous times since returning from her shopping trip with Hermione that Saturday afternoon, to find the boys gathered at the kitchen table. Ron was liable to go on along the same vein for ages.

The three youngest Wealsey brothers, along with Harry, Neville Longbottom, Seamus Finnegan, Lee Jordan and Dean Thomas, had been assigned the mammoth task of organising Draco's bachelor party.

They had been meeting once a week for the past two months to plan the event. Not that any actual planning had occurred, not until the last two meetings, anyhow. They mostly ate crisps, flew their brooms in the backyard and walked down to the Ottery St. Catchpole local pub to celebrate their status as Masters of the Wizarding World.

Neville was in charge of sending out the invitations, and been doing a tremendous job so far. This was the only aspect of the party where Draco was to be consulted, and initially, after a great deal of foot shuffling and muttering (none of the other boys were too keen on working with Draco), Neville had bravely offered to pick up the task.

The rest of the planning remained a combined effort. Ginny was allowed to listen in on planning sessions, but only after she was sworn to secrecy. Ron was the only one who remained dubious as to Ginny's trustworthiness.

While most of the other boys had been at the Burrow earlier in the day, all that remained now was a weary, but still enthusiastic Fred, George and Ron.

The brothers were currently examining catalogues.

"I had no idea that they had catalogues for these, ah...services," said Ron, as he flipped speedily through a bright, pink folder that coincidentally matched the shade his face was rapidly becoming.

"What sort of catalogue is that?" Ginny asked, attempting to look over his shoulder

"None of your business," Ron replied, pulling his chair further away.

Fred saw no reason to doubt Ginny's promise that she would not reveal information about the party to Hermione. "Stripper catalogue," Fred chipped in, shoving a handful of crisps into his mouth. "Ruddy good one, too."

"Oooh, can I see?"

Ron placed one large hand on Ginny's forehead and pushed her away. "You most certainly cannot."

"Ron, shut up and give her a look," Bill ordered, from where he was cooking with gusto at the stoves.

Bill was doing most things with gusto lately, since Molly and Arthur Weasley had taken a much deserved, extended vacation. Although from Molly's letters, she had yet to experience anything other than Muggle attractions. Arthur had hooked up with an old chum from the _Society for the Promotion of Muggle Artefacture_ in the States.

As a result, Molly was being dragged around a variety of Muggle Science Museums. The couple had only consented to go on holiday if their children all agreed to live under the one roof for the duration of the trip. Which was why, despite having separate residences, the six remaining Weasley children, plus hangars on, were currently residing at the Burrow.

Ginny thought it was bloody fantastic. Still a long ways from normality, but a definite push in the right direction. While the mood at the Burrow was mostly festive, there was an undeniable dark cloud hanging over their heads. Percy Weasley's desertion from the Light and subsequent death at the hands of Aurors the previous year, had left an excruciatingly painful tear in the family.

Percy's room still remained undisturbed, for all that Molly had tried to put his things away on numerous occasions. She never got much further than sitting on his bed, and spreading her hands over his worn bed sheets. Ginny would always be thankful that Harry had arrived late at the ambush of the Death Eater base, which Percy had been stationed at. Better that Percy had died at the end of an unnamed Auror's wand, then at Harry's.

The effect that would have had on Harry's relationships with Ron and the rest of the Weasleys would have been irreparable.

Otherwise, things were looking up, particularly since there were to be new additions to the Weasley brood very soon. Bill was experiencing maternity stress, seeing as his wife, Helen, was about to explode with their third child. Despite Molly Weasley's best efforts, only her firstborn seemed capable of making anything more complex than a hard-boiled egg. As a result, Bill had taken to making most meals for the family in his mother's absence.

"She'll tell Hermione," Ron insisted as he grudgingly relinquished his hold over the stripper catalogue to his sister.

Bill shook his head. Sometimes, it was laudable to think that the group of squabbling siblings seated around his mother's ancient kitchen table had been a lethal, dark wizard, killing force just a few months ago.

"Alright, so this is the _final_ list. I'll be taking amendments up until Monday. After that, it's settled," Fred announced. He began to read out the agreed upon bachelor party activities.

Fred was fond of lists, while George had taken to drawing accompanying diagrams to said lists. Ron, meanwhile, felt it was his duty to question anything he thought Draco or Harry were likely to take issue with.

"...and following that, we have the Oriental Fire Breathing segment, where guests will be given giant marshmallows to toast."

Bill paused in his sauce stirring to give his brother a look. "Er, is it wise to mix alcohol laden guests with props that are likely to catch on fire?"

Fred looked offended. He had campaigned most vigorously for the Oriental Fire Breathing. "Well, that's the whole point isn't it?"

George held up a diagram of the Three Broomsticks. "Not to worry, we'll have several buckets of water, located _here_, and _here_, on standby. Rosmerta had kindly allowed us access to her pipes."

Ginny started giggling. "Yes, I hear she's quite free with her…pipes."

Ron immediately took this as evidence to her untrustworthy nature. "This is why girls shouldn't be permitted to plan bachelor parties. Giggling at every other turn!" he scoffed.

"I was just wondering if Rosmerta's pipes are what they used to be. Might they be a bit rusty now? Eh, George?" said Ginny.

George promptly went red and began to sketch another diagram. Fred, also going quite red, coughed and resumed reading from his list. The only other noise for the next six minutes came from Bill's frying of chicken.

Ron eventually interrupted the silence with mention of Activity Number Four, the stripper act. "I'm not sure about this de Poitier woman. There'll be a lot of drunken blokes. Maybe a Veela isn't the best choice..."

"She's only half-Veela," Fred pointed out. "And she must be good because she's bloody expensive."

"Oh? Is this her?" Ginny laid the catalogue down on the table, pointing to the image of a willowy blonde, dressed in strategically placed, palm fronds. The woman was carrying a pair of golden hedge trimmers, and with every turn and shimmy of her lithe body, clipped at a batch of fronds. Bright, silver letters were flashing at the top of the page, advertising, _'Diane de Poitier: The Thinking Man's Choice'._

"I think Draco will like her," Ginny commented primly.

Bill was standing over Ginny, sauce ladle still in hand. "Oh. I know her," said Bill. "She's excellent. They hired her to do my boss's going away party in Egypt. She doesn't just do the one theme too."

Ginny was already reading the instructions at the bottom of the catalogue page. "Tropicana!" she said, and everyone crowded around the catalogue to watch as the page transformed. Diane de Poitier was now dressed in a grass skirt and matching coconut bra, shaking her hips to a phantom drum beat, while blowing sultry kisses at the Weasley men.

Fred wanted a turn. He selected a theme from the catalogue list. "Dungeons and Dragons!"

There were more than a few gasps from the gathered group. The grass skirt and coconuts melted away to be replaced by chain mail, gauntlets, a shield and a sword. An enormous, misty, white dragon appeared in the background. With an expression that could only be described as Evil Delight, Diane de Poitier fought with the beast, thrusting her sword and holding up her shield when the dragon released a jet of blue fire. Every time she was struck by the flame, a portion of her chain mail dissolved, revealing more and more of her smooth, golden skin. She was slick with sweat and still smiling with relish by the time most of her chain mail had vanished.

"Blimey," said Fred, "Charlie would approve."

Bill looked instantly aggravated. "Yes, where is Charlie? I've been cooking all afternoon and he's going to have to settle for a cold dinner."

"I think both Draco and Harry will like that one," Ron said, reading the blurb that had appeared along with the 'Dungeons and Dragons' theme. "Says here it's based on a real legend."

"You mean the legend of the delightfully scantily clad, half-Veela damsel, who fights the great, big white beast?" George grinned. "That _should_ be every boy's favourite bed time story."

Ginny was about to comment, but was stalled by a knock at the front door.

"That might be Charlie now, forgotten Mum's Floo password, probably," Bill muttered, taking off his apron and heading into the lounge room to answer the door. "Set the table, please!"

The siblings worked like clockwork, laying out a fresh tablecloth and passing down plates and cutlery from the cupboards. Bill returned a moment later, but not with Charlie.

"Ginny, there's someone here to see you."

It was Jason Stephenson, looking slightly windswept and carrying a Sidewinder 3000 over his right shoulder. Fred, who was closest to Ginny, whispered under his breath, "Uneventful day at the shops, eh?"

"I'm sorry to interrupt, you're obviously about to have dinner," Jason apologised, looking at the set table.

"Obviously," said Ron. Ginny kicked his foot under the table.

"Jason, is something the matter? Is Hermione alright?" Ginny asked. The war was still fresh enough in their minds that most of them tended to think the worst before they thought about anything else. An evening visit to the Burrow by a stranger was usually a cause for concern.

"No, no. She's fine," assured Jason. "I didn't mean to worry you. I just came to give you this. You dropped it this afternoon." Jason held out her brown silk scarf, a hesitant look in his aquamarine eyes.

Ginny's hand immediately went to her throat. She hadn't realised her scarf was missing.

"My name's Jason Stephenson," Jason said to Bill, whom he correctly gauged as the head of the household. "I hope you don't mind that I came by. I met your sister today at Diagon Alley, and I got your address off my Dad. It so happens that our parents are currently on vacation together."

Bill looked perplexed for just a moment, before breaking into a smile. "Oh! Your dad's the American who's crazy about Muggle gadgets?"

Jason returned the grin. "Yeah, that's my father."

"Well you're staying for dinner, of course," nodded Bill, putting his apron back on. "We're just about to serve up."

Jason shook his head. "No really, that's not necessary. I just wanted to return your sister's scarf before I left for the States." It was quite obvious to all four Weasley brothers, that a man did not more than a hundred kilometers from the city, simply to return a missing scarf.

Ginny looked very pleased to have her scarf back, however. "Thank you, Jason. The scarf was a gift from my mother," she said, taking the silk and tying it immediately around her neck. "You'll stay for dinner, won't you?"

Fred had already summoned an extra plate and cutlery, and had set up another spot for the new arrival. "Come on, then. I'm starved. The sooner you stay, the sooner we can start eating."

"Um, thanks," Jason said, as he was shoved into a chair, for the second time that day. "It's great to finally meet you two, by the way," he said to the twins. "My brothers and I _love_ your products."

George beamed. "I'm George," he said, "The mean and surly twin. The chirpy and annoying one seated across from you is Fred. The tall, gangly brother with the whiny voice, who will scowl just as soon as I've finished introducing him, is Ron. Mother Hen over at the stove is Bill, and of course you've already met our little Ginny."

George sent Ginny a saccharine sweet smile, Ginny returned with a warning look. Entire, silent conversations were often conducted across the Weasley kitchen table via such looks.

Fred was busy pouring juice into glasses. "Always good to meet a happy customer. How many brothers do you have, Jason?"

"Three. I'm the youngest."

Ron seemed to think this was reason enough to join in the conversation. "Nice broom," he noted, as Jason laid his broom against the table. "I was thinking about a Sidewinder myself, but it felt too light when I test flew one."

"Yeah," Jason nodded. "That's the common complaint. But I've always been partial to lighter models."

"So how did you meet Ginny?" Bill asked conversationally, as he carried the chicken to the table. "Ginny, could you go upstairs and call Helen and the twins down, please?

Ginny recognised a temporary dismissal when she heard one. She hoped to Merlin that Jason had enough brains not to reveal the true nature of their meeting at Diagon Alley. Her brothers were nobody's fools. They were capable of sensing deceit like sharks smelled blood in the water.

"I was shopping, and couldn't pass up on the opportunity to meet a Weasley," Jason responded, with an easy smile.

Ginny who overheard this on her way up the kitchen steps, released a soft sigh of relief. She returned a few minutes later, with Helen Weasley and Bill's three-year old twins, Jonathan and Sylvie. The twins bounded down the kitchen stairs, freshly bathed and dressed in matching, blue and pink flannel pyjamas.

They weaved in between numerous ankles, nearly collided with Fred who was carrying a basket of bread rolls, evaded capture by Ron, and then stopped short when they caught sight of Jason. It was nearly impossible to tell the children apart. They didn't have the red Weasley hair. Instead, both twins took after their mother, with caps of tight, blonde, corkscrew curls.

"If you two fall over and crack your heads open, there'll be hell to pay!" warned Bill, who was finally seated at the table. "Jason, this is my wife Helen, and my hellions, Johnny and Sylvie. Now, everyone _eat_. I've already put aside a portion for Charlie's meal, so feel free to pile your plates up."

Ginny was busy whispering something to her niece and nephew, who immediately looked up at Jason with curious brown eyes.

One of the twins (Johnny, he guessed, seeing as the child was wearing blue and not pink pyjamas) tugged on Jason's sleeve and asked if Americans flew on brooms, or if they used Hoovers like his Aunt Ginny had just informed him.

Jason caught Ginny's amused expression from across the table and smiled back.

** "This meeting will now come to order," said Minerva McGonagall, calling everyone's attention from the light refreshments of tea and biscuits that were served with cheerful duty by Snape Hall's small but efficient contingent of house elves.

"Who's missing today?" she inquired, looking up with sightless eyes. For an Order meeting, there was a notable absence of bickering.

Albus Dumbledore looked around the room, his light blue eyes passing over Severus Snape, dressed in his customary black, Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks, both sporting healthy tans, Alastor Moody who was asleep in his seat, and Molly and Arthur Weasley, who were both wearing extremely loud, tropical print shirts.

With the exception of Snape, every other person in the room was attending the meeting while technically being away on holiday.

As such, the mood was light.

Remus cleared his throat, his hazel eyes twinkling, "Minerva. I believe the youngsters are all absent."

"Oh? Why?" asked McGonagall.

Snape, who had been about to speak, made an irritable noise as Tonks was jostled onto Lupin's lap. Her foot collided with Snape's cup of tea, sending the hot liquid sloshing onto his pristine robes.

"Tonks, there are sixteen other perfectly sound chairs in my sitting room. Might I interest you in one of them?"

"Really?" she asked, with would-be, guileless eyes. "More comfortable than a lap?"

"Who called this meeting?" Dumbledore chose then to interrupt. He was wearing fly-fishing gear, as was Moody. Both men had been on retreat at Moody's cabin when the summons to appear had been received. They carried the faint scent of fish and stagnant water about them, so much so that Snape, who had the sense of smell worthy of a Potions Master, subtly inched his chair away.

"I called the meeting," announced Snape, who took the floor after escorting McGonagall to one of the aforementioned chairs.

"Order of business, Severus?" asked Dumbledore, his bony hands were working speedily on a new lure.

"Draco Malfoy's bachelor party."

Lupin cleared his throat again. "Severus, Harry and the Weasleys have taken on the task of organising.

"I wish I could go," Tonks grumbled, seizing Snape's abandoned cup of tea to dunk her biscuit in. "They've hired Ivan and Sputter, and I've caught Diane de Poitier's act from when I was working in Paris. She's remarkable."

"That Veela strip... er, contortionist?" asked Arthur Weasley interestedly, causing Molly to put down her teacup and stare at him.

"Performance artist," Tonks corrected.

"You could go with me, in disguise," Lupin enthused. "Go as a man!"

Tonks laughed. "Yes, and then Fred would owe George than fifty galleons they've been betting since fifth year, as to where your, um... true _interests_. lie."

Lupin shrugged. "Fred can afford it."

It was true. The twins were doing very well indeed. Lupin realised that Snape was looking annoyed at the groups continuing digression. "So did you want to provide input on the party, then Severus? I'm sure the boys would love to hear from you."

Molly coughed into her fist. From his seat beside Dumbledore, Moody snorted in his sleep.

"I'm not referring to the festivities," snapped Snape. "I'm referring to the _security_."

McGonagall raised her hand.

"Yes, Minerva," Snape said, pleased that _someone_ had remembered meeting protocol

"Security considerations are already in place," Lupin said. "Draco has hired _Stephenson & Stephenson_ to oversee the event. You will recall they are also contracted for the next Quidditch World Cup."

"I wasn't informed of that," muttered Snape.

"I believe the idea is for you to enjoy yourself, Severus. You needn't worry about security," Arthur said.

Snape narrowed his dark eyes. "Has it not occurred to everyone that this is precisely the event certain factions would use to target Order and Army members? It is the reason why we were not told not to be present at the Order of Merlin Award Presentations."

Tonks gave up attempting to locate her lost biscuit-half in Snape's tea. "Where are our awards anyway? My mum's been asking to see my Second Class Honour."

"Ron has them," Molly informed. "And before you speak, yes, I've already told him to keep them well hidden from Fred and George."

"Tonks, I'll thank you not to put your feet up on my furniture," Snape glared.

"Sorry." Tonks raised her eyebrows and removed her feet from a satin upholstered arm chair.

"Who here _isn't_ going to be attending the party?" Snape asked.

Tonks, Dumbledore and Arthur Weasley raised their hands.

Snape looked pained. "I meant who here among the men?"

Tonks lowered her hand.

"You're not going, Albus?" Molly inquired.

"I think it best if I leave the riotous celebrations to the riotous youth, Molly," Dumbledore smiled. He wasn't as mobile as he once had been.

"The boys should be able to install a hover chair for you," Molly insisted. "Fred is clever with those sorts of things."

The thought of Dumbledore entrusting his fate to a Wheezes product caused McGonagall to sputter into her tea.

"I wouldn't worry about security, Severus. Stephenson & Stephenson are a reputable agency. I know Graeme Stephenson personally, I can vouch for his company," Arthur said.

"Even so, Arthur, I think Severus would prefer if Aurors were on hand to oversee the event. And by Aurors, I mean those that are not on the invitation list, am I correct in my assumption, Severus?" Dumbledore asked.

"You feel so strongly about this?" Lupin also asked Snape, a frown settling over his lined face.

Poised with a sneer, Snape opened his mouth, but then seemed to reconsider his words. He rubbed at the pronounced furrow between his brows. All trace of acidity or sarcasm vanished, replaced only with a tangible sincerity.

"We call them 'youngsters', and truly, they are still very much _that_. And while I'm certain some of them will probably be looking over their shoulders for the rest of their lives, I am fairly certain that all guards will be let down on this one night. The one night of the year where they will run amok, left to their own devices, leaving all apprehension and caution at the door when they hand in their invitations and their cloaks. These are Britains _best_ young wizards. It would be a catastrophe the likes of which we would take generations to recover from, were someone to capitalise on this...lapse."

Lupin's hazel eyes were serious. "You want a double guard?"

"_Triple_," said Snape, with deadly conviction. "And I want to oversee them."

Everyone turned to Dumbledore then, for all that the Order was a democracy.

Dumbledore sucked in a rattling breath. It was a while before he spoke. "You shall have it, Severus."

Snape seem to deflate slight with relied. He nodded.

"But _you_ will not oversee the guards. Alastor will assume responsibility."

"Albus, I don't think-"

"That is all I have to say on the matter," Dumbledore insisted, returning to his lure.

"Should we wake him to ask him?" Molly asked, peering at a softly snoring Moody.

Dumbledore shook his head, a ghost of a smile on his ancient face. "No need to disturb his rest for the moment. When he awakens, I'll


	5. Chapter 5

**~Part 4: Owl Post~**

Fred,

Where the buzzard's fart were you on Tuesday? We were supposed to meet at the Broomsticks to speak to the caterers. Did you forget? I'll be in Hogsmeade for another day, after that I'm taking Mum to Maurice's to get her hair done. If you're with Katie, tell her that she is a bad, bad, devil woman for making you forget about your responsibilities.

Especially now that you're on holiday. Lucky sod.

How's that going, by the way? You just about ready to shove Seamus off the hotel balcony yet?

George

**

Git,

I told you I had special dinner reservations on Tuesday. Sorry I can't be there to help right now, but really, it's not my fault you can't organise your way out of a broom closet, is it? And OF COURSE I'm with Katie. It is OUR bloody holiday after all (even if Seamus 'third-wheel-can't-take-a-hint' Finnegan decided to tag along at the last minute).

You asked how we were all getting along in your last letter. Well, it's quite lovely over here, not that I've seen much of the outdoors as yet.

Can't handle the humidity. Humidity and shopping, George, is a ghastly combination. However, this is also where Seamus has proved himself most useful.

I've voluntarily confined myself to the hotel spa, while Seamus has been taking Katie out around the shops. Frankly, I've been doing my best to ignore him, but it's hard, what with his constant mopey face.

Katie's been mollycoddling him since we got here. It's a sham I tell you! Only I don't reckon he's too cut up about his break-up with Lavender. Katie thinks he's 'hiding his hurt'. She called me an insensitive lummox and then promptly took off to Gringotts' Singapore Branch with my pocket book.

I'm not worried though. If she and that mullet head run off to Jamaica with my money, I'll just hire our new detective friend, Jason Stephenson, to bring them back. It's good to have contacts.

Oh, and one more thing, I talked Seamus into Flooing back home this evening to help you with the caterers. He's not any good at lists or diagrams, but he should suffice for the moment. Just until I'm back to help you.

You see, Katie and I have a date with a spa bath, or as they call them, here, a jacoozee. I don't care what you have to do, George, just keep him with you for as long as possible. Also, try not to comment too much on his sunburn. He's had a bit of love/hate relationship with the Singaporean weather.

Your extremely relaxed and freshly exfoliated brother,

Fred

**

Dearest Angelina,

The answers to your questions:

No, Fred has not proposed to me, nor do I think he's intending too. I had a good rummage around our hotel room while he was having a massage this morning, and unless he's hiding the ring in an entirely inappropriate spot, he's definitely not intending to pop THE question this holiday.

Even if he did ask, we'd have to wait until next year to announce it. With the hype and attention surrounding Hermione and Malfoy right now, I'd think it would best to wait anyway.

And yes, Seamus has been a slight bother. Ok, well, he's been a rather large bother. But it's like I told Fred, Seamus is probably bottling up his hurt. The time spent away from all things Lavenderish will do him good. I caught him fingering a magenta pashmina at the markets yesterday afternoon. It was heart wrenching. The thing wasn't even really that purple!

How are you and Ginny coping with the preparations? I've received a letter from Lavender nearly every day since we arrived in Singapore. I swear, the way that girl carries on about the wedding, you'd think SHE was the one marrying Malfoy.

She's also been asking how Seamus is coping. I haven't said anything as yet. Fred is sending Seamus home for a day or two to help George get the Three Broomsticks ready for the party. I told Lavender she can speak to Seamus then.

Oh, and have you heard? The boys hired Diane de Poitiers for the party! Should be a good one, eh?

I'll fill you in on more details once I wring them out of Fred.

Wish you and George were here!

xoxo

Katie.

P.S. Do you know any good remedies for severe sunburn? Seamus fell asleep on the beach again.

**

Katie Marie Bell,

You owe me a new set of Quidditch trousers, my dear. The mental image of Our Lavender marrying Draco Malfoy had me in stiches for a good ten minutes at this morning's practice. I spit up my chocolate energy beverage all over my new Canons uniform.

Oliver is acting extremely suspicious and is convinced that we've hired a stripper for Hermione's 'ladies' evening' and are busy plotting over it through owl post. He is also cross at my unintended desecration of the hallowed Canons colours.

I think I liked him better when he was a lowly Captain of Gryffindor Quidditch. His head has swelled to gargantuan proportions now that he's playing pro. If he continues along this path, I might just have to inform him that professional Quidditch Chasers make one and a half times as much as Keepers. That should shut him up for a day or so.

Planning has been running smoothly. Hermione wants a quiet, fun, evening at the Burrow, with cocktails. Naturally, Our Lavender suggested everything from a hired beautician for the evening, to yes, a male stripper. I have no objections to the latter, seeing as the boys have hired Diane de Poitiers (typical).

But Ginny put her foot down. She reminded us that it will be Hermione's night and the bride-to-be must be kept happy. It should be good, nevertheless. It's been ages since we've all been able to sit down and have a good, long laugh. Ginny had requested an album of Malfoy baby pictures to facilitate the giggling, but apparently Malfoy has them in an impenetrable vault somewhere.

As for Seamus's condition. I'd suggest a mixture of buttermilk, turmeric and aloe. Does the trick in a pinch, though it smells like shite.

Love,

Angelina

**

Hello you!!!

As per your request, I am reminding you that we are still meeting for tea tomorrow afternoon. I cannot thank you enough for spending so much of your week with me, Parvati. You are a dear friend! Seamus has left me in shambles. Here I am pining for him, while the cagey bastard is away on holiday with Fred and Katie.

Oh, and before I forget, I was in London over the weekend, shopping for a wedding gift for the Happy Couple. Whom did I spot coming out of Flourish and Blotts but Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks! Holding hands, no less!

Ginny claims to know nothing of this new and terribly exciting development. Asking Hermione would only result in a sermon on keeping my nose out of other people's business.

Naturally, I had to ask the authority on such issues. So! Are Lupin and Tonks an item or what?

Lavender

**

Dear Lavender,

Really? Lupin and Tonks? Funny, I thought Lupin was gay. Some 'Special Social Correspondent' I am! I have no idea!

Sorry for the short missive. We're swamped with work at the moment. My editor wants me to make an impromptu visit to Malfoy Manor to do an interview with Draco, and frankly, I'm shitting myself.

The fact that Draco hasn't granted anyone an interview since the end of the war has not deterred my editor. He thinks Draco and I were fast friends at school, and I admit, I haven't exactly set him straight on the matter.

About Tonks and Lupin, I suppose I could try and ask Draco for you. He always knows about these things.

I'll see you tomorrow, 3 o'clock.

Regards,

Parvati.

**

To the Editor, Witch Weekly

We regret to inform you that one of your staff members, a Miss Patil, is currently being detained at the Malfoy Manor security checkpoint. Miss Patil attempted to climb over the property wall this morning, and was involved in a brief altercation with several security personnel. Her wand was apparently misplaced in the incident and she is refusing to be escorted to the nearest public Floo facility.

In future, may I suggest securing an arrangement with Mr .Malfoy prior to sending a journalist? Malfoy Manor grounds are heavily warded and Miss Patil is extremely lucky to have escaped injury.

Regards,

A. Stephenson,

Stephenson & Stephenson Security Co.

**

Lavender!

I'm in love! His name is Alex Stephenson and he's a divine specimen of manly perfection. He's also rather handy with a Petrificus Partialus. Meet me at my office and I'll tell you the details over lunch!

Parvati

**

Dear Devil Woman (a.k.a Ms. Katie Bell),

Did you or did you not inform Angelina Johnson that Diane de Poitiers will be performing at Malfoy's party? How could you, Katie? I have had to endure an entire week of evil looks and lectures from female acquaintance about integrity and political correctness.

Tell my brother to hurry up and finish his stupid holiday. I appreciate Seamus being here now but he's proving to be no help at all. The Italian caterers can barely understand his accent, let alone quit sniggering at his lobster face long enough to discuss the menu.

I have a business to run and a party to organise and I can't do it without my designated list maker. My diagrams are useless on their own!

Lavender paid us a visit at the Burrow this evening, to ask about a bet I made with Fred in our 3rd year. My brother, your boyfriend, has never paid up of course, but I'm next to positive that Lupin is gay. Apparently Lavender saw him and Tonks canoodling in Diagon Alley. What do you know of this?

In any case, I hope you're taking good care of Fred. I want him in tip-top shape when you return him to me.

George.

**

Dear Evil Weasley Twin (a.k.a Mr. George Gideon Weasley)

How typical. If a man is polite, gentlemanly and chews with his mouth closed, he's automatically gay? I asked Fred for you, for the record. He reckons he saw Lupin and Sirius Black wearing either half of the same set of pyjamas once, but really, I wouldn't believe anything Fred says.

Especially if a bet is involved.

You know, if you really wanted to find out, all you have to do is ask Malfoy. I don't know what it is about him, but somehow, he knows these things. And as to your rudely asked question, yes, I did tell Angelina that you're hiring Diane de Poitiers. You're a twit if you think Angie and I don't tell each other everything anyway.

And your brother is an even bigger twit for telling me that 'sensitive' bit of information in the first place. So there.

Rest assured however, I am taking excellent care of Fred. We'll see you lot in a week and a half! Love to the family.

xoxo

Katie.

**

To: Mr George Weasley,

C/O Weasleys Wizards Wheezes Enterprises,

London Division.

Dear Mr Weasley,

I have been authorised to respond on Mr Malfoy's behalf, concerning your recent inquiry into the sexual orientation of one Remus J. Lupin, of 16 Grosvenor Crescent, Surrey.

Mr. Lupin is not homosexual.

Kind regards,

Alice Hopps,

Assistant to Mr. Malfoy

**

Fred,

Please refer to the attached missive from Malfoy's office. Hah!

You owe me 50 Galleons, mate.

George.

P.S. I told you!

**

George,

Two words for you, dear brother, 'Definitive Confirmation'.

You won't see a Knut from me until you bring forth some concrete, hard-core evidence. Also stop sending one line owl post, will you? It's a bloody waste of good owl.

Fred.

P.S. Do you reckon we could get OUR secretary to answer personal mail?

**

Fred,

You do realise our secretary is Mum?

Regards,

George (a.k.a 'World's Foremost Abuser of Owl Post')

**

Dear Alastor,

I see Albus is up to his old tricks again. The last time you fell asleep at an Order meeting, I recall that Albus had volunteered you to teach at Hogwarts! Speaking for myself, I certainly don't mind the extra work. It's frightfully dull being a retiree. All this free time is enough to drive a witch batty.

Coming back to the business at hand- I have the final numbers you asked for. In total, I have successfully contacted sixteen members within the RAL, all of whom are happy to step out of retirement for the evening. Regarding the patrol plan, I shall owl you once the assembled guard have met.

As to your other query about what I have doing with myself these past months, lately I have undertaken casual work with the Department of Records and Numbers. The Ministry required a team to catalogue and transcribe the hundred of Pensieves that were submitted as evidence during the course of the war trials. It was my good fortune to have been placed in charge of Albus Dumbledore's Pensieve.

I tell you, Alastor, any person who doubts that Dumbledore is nothing short of genius should spend an afternoon in his memories. I spent most of last week sorting through the later events of the war, wherein young Draco Malfoy featured heavily. What a coincidence it was to receive your request to form an additional guard for the young man's pre-nuptial celebrations.

I confess that I was somewhat startled by the information I accessed from Dumbeldore's Pensive. I doubt that even Malfoy realises the extent to which Dumbledore had planned ahead. Difficult to believe that such a young man, a boy, really, was able to successfully hoodwink Voldemort into attacking Hogwarts, where our entire defensive force lay waiting in ambush.

Too difficult to believe, for some. So many details have not yet been released to the public. It is not my place demand that the information be made known, though I can see only good coming from it.

Most of us know in the Ministry know that Malfoy had brought the army of Death Eaters to Hogwarts. He had convincingly destroyed a third of the castle and had been about to 'dispatch' Harry Potter at wand point, when the charade was finally revealed. It was a perfect deception, so good that certain factions on our side believed that Dumbledore himself had been triple crossed, until that last, crucial minute.

It is lamentable that Malfoy had to be put to trial at the war's culmination due to these suspicions, but the outcome of that trial served to clarify his allegiance to anyone who doubted.

You were not present at Draco Malfoy's inquest last year, when the defence had chosen to play the final moments of Voldemort's defeat, as evidence.

Excerpts of Albus Dumbledore's Pensive were relayed to the court. By that time, everyone had of course heard about Dumbledore's clever plot to fool Voldemort, leading to the final, scripted battle between Malfoy and Potter.

But I'm quite certain that more than a few people in the courtroom harboured the thought that perhaps Malfoy had, if only for a moment, intended to follow through with the Killing Curse. One wonders if Harry Potter had feared the same in those eventful final minutes.

I had never seen the Dark Lord in the flesh, but I will never forget the look of supreme devastation on his face. The image was made all the more vivid due to the crystal clarity of Dumbledore's stored memories. I stand by what I said in my previous letter. Any faction foolish enough to attack the celebration on the twenty-first could not have been present in that courtroom. These are not mere children we are proposing to guard. They are seasoned wizards.

It will be splendid to catch up with you again, Alastor. It has been a great, long while since we last met, and even then, circumstances were hardly conducive. Do let me know if you need any other resources for the party. As always, the Retired Aurors League is always happy to assist.

Medic Phyllis Dearling

President,

RAL.


	6. Chapter 6

**Part Five: Celebration**

**6.40pm**

Neville Longbottom observed his reflection in the men's lavatory mirror of The Three Broomsticks.

A tall, chubby faced youth stared back at him, with a shock of yellow, gelled hair, an earring glinting from his left ear lobe, and a nauseous expression that had nothing to do with the schooner of beer he had downed ten minutes earlier.

Neville did not do well in social situations. He did even less well in the company of attractive women. How fortunate for him, then, that he had co-organised an event where both were in full supply.

He looked around the lavatory, making certain that he was completely alone, before turning to stare at his reflection again. The pale, greenish look of his face was not reassuring. His last attack of nerves had happened at Lavender Brown's twentieth birthday party, and if Harry had not taken him outside the restaurant for a bit of fresh air, he would have hurled all over Parvati Patil's pink, dragonhide pumps.

His hand shook violently now, as he turned the faucet to douse his face with another handful of cold water. Not that this helped, but at least it gave him something to do, something that he hoped would work.

It had been like this since the siege. Neville had always been a shy person, but since the war, it seemed like his shyness had mutated into a full-fledged disability. It wasn't enough that he felt hopelessly claustrophobic and nauseous when the panic attacks took hold, but being a wizard, he also inadvertently made _things_ happen. A wizard with a mental instability was not a good person to have around, as Voldemort had so eloquently demonstrated. Neville had already made error of arriving half an hour early. All had been progressing well until he found himself being steadily pushed into a corner of the Three Broomsticks by the arriving guests. A pretty barmaid had come up to deliver his drink. She had made polite conversation, not knowing that Neville had been fighting tooth and nail to not cause the candles on the nearby wall to blow out (they did), and the head on the ale he was sipping at to explode all over his face (it did).

The girl had scampered off in a mild panic, and Neville had made a beeline for the little boys' room.

And wasn't that a fitting name for it, he thought.

The door of the lavatory swung open then, and in walked the last person on earth Neville wanted to meet just then.

Snape spared him a cursory glance before proceeding to use the urinals. Neville rinsed out his mouth, attempting to get rid of the bitter taste that had temporarily taken up residence there. The urge to flee was strong, but at that point, he nearly preferred Snape to the crowd beyond the lavatory doors.

He started slightly when Snape appeared beside him to wash his hands.

"Longbottom," said Snape.

Neville assumed it was a greeting. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard his former Potions Master saying anything as mundane and pleasant as 'hello' or 'goodbye'.

"Professor." Neville responded in kind. Snape was eyeing him as if he were a particularly volatile potions experiment that was about to explode all over his immaculate dungeon classroom.

"I haven't been your professor in a while," Snape returned, wiping his hands on a paper towel.

"Old habits die h-hard," stammered Neville. A sharp crack appeared in the mirror, dissecting Neville's reflection in half.

Snape ignored it. He seemed to be cataloguing Neville's sweat soaked shirt, colourless complexion and mild shaking.

"How long?"

Neville turned his head. "How d-do you mean?"

"How long," Snape asked, in the same annoyingly neutral tone, "have you been suffering from post traumatic stress syndrome?"

Neville knew the term, of course. He had done a wealth of research into both Muggle and Magical treatments over the years, in an effort to find a remedy to assist his parents.

"Since the siege," he responded, swallowing his stammer. _Since he had killed his first Death Eater, and his second, and his third... _Snape nodded, unsurprised. "I know of a way to alleviate the condition. It's not a cure, but it helps maintain your equilibrium, that you may better handle the triggers."

They were interrupted then by Oliver Wood, who despite having just arrived, was already well on his way to being completely shit-faced'. Dressed in a zebra print Muggle suit, he strode into the lavatory, shouted a hearty hello to Neville and Snape before proceeding to use the urinals with a great deal of off-key whistling.

Neville and Snape waited a good five minutes for him to finish up, whereupon Wood cheerfully reminded them that party activities started in ten minutes.

"Blithering idiot," opinioned Snape, causing Neville to find his first grin of the day.

The smile quickly subsided when Snape turned to him with a serious expression. "Longbottom, we'd better do this quickly. The drinks are flowing freely and I fear our privacy here will be short lived."

Snape seemed to be rehearsing something over in his head. After a moment, he said, "Repeat after me. My name is Neville Longbottom. I am a recipient of the Order of Merlin. First Class, I am a member of Dumbledore's Army, a fellow vanquisher of He Who Must Not Be Named. My parents are the famed Aurors, Frank and Alice Longbottom. I am friend to Harry Potter. I am an award-winning student of Marchionessa Sprout. My talents include...."

Neville smiled as he listened. As far as confidence-inducing mantras went, he thought this one was rather excellent.

**

Harry touched down at Hogsmeade Square at exactly seven that evening. The main Village streets were largely deserted, save for a few members of the press who were stationed outside the front entrance to The Three Broomsticks, cameras and Dictoquills at the ready. Harry made a quick detour around to the back street, where a makeshift broom valet service was operating. There was a red velvet rope separating the press from the line of guests who were checking in their invitations at the door.

Bill and Charlie Weasley, looking very smart in their matching Oxford 'bags' were speaking with the Stephenson & Stephenson security guard at the head of the line.

There seemed to be a bit of a problem.

"I'm taking this with me when I go in, or I'm not going in at all," Charlie was saying.

"Look, I don't make the rules. All weapons have to be dropped off at the door. I can't let you in with that," the guard insisted. He was a behemoth of a man, whom Harry thought looked rather familiar…

Charlie, who wasn't exactly pint sized himself, braced his feet apart and folded his arms over his biscuit-coloured suit. He was shaking his head, a stubborn expression on his face. "Then we have a problem, don't we?"

His Firebolt under his arm, Harry stepped out of the shadows and walked quickly to the head of the line. He was instantly illuminated by the flashing photography of a dozen cameras amidst cries of "Harry! Harry! Look this way! Over here!"

It was heartening to see that some things never changed. Case in point was the fact that Colin Creevey could almost always be found shouting his name from behind a camera.

Bill looked ecstatic to see him. "Harry! Good! Will you be so kind as to tell Charlie that he is being a complete arse, and that he should leave his nasty, big knife at the door?"

Harry raised his eyebrows at Charlie. "Knife?"

"Mr. Potter, pleasure to meet you," interrupted the guard, who was smiling at Harry with Jason Stephenson's aquamarine eyes. "My name's Alex. I think you've already met my midget of a brother?"

Harry didn't know whether to be offended, seeing that Jason had been slightly bigger that he was. "You're the brother that Jason stole that assignment from?"

Alex chuckled. "That's me."

Bill was suddenly looking hopeful. "You're one of Jason's brothers? Yes, well we know Jason, he had dinner at our house two weeks ago!"

Harry looked at Bill, "He did?"

"Yes. He came by to drop off Ginny's hanky. I think he's got his eye on our little sister," Bill informed. He was clearly hoping for a peaceful resolution to the Charlie-knife issue.

Charlie, who was hadn't been present at the dinner, but who was bright enough to spot a potentially sensitive issue, elbowed his brother roughly in the ribs.

Harry had his 'dark wizard killing look' on.

"Oi! Harry! What's the hold up? We've been standing in line for fifteen bloody minutes!" shouted Dean Thomas, who was at the back of the queue with Seamus Finnegan. Both men were dressed in white suits with matching fedoras and shiny, black, lace-up shoes.

"Can you make an exception?" Harry inquired of Alex.

Alex sighed. "Mr. Potter, have you _seen_ the knife?"

Charlie took this as his que to whip out the latest addition to his collection of pointy, dragon handling implements. With a gleeful expression, he reached under his jacket and carefully pulled out an enormous, foot long, serrated edged, double bladed, monstrosity.

In the partial moonlight, the knife gleamed huge and sinister.

Bill groaned and covered his face with a hand.

Harry gaped. "Bloody hell, Charlie! No way _that's_ going in with you."

Alex looked vindicated. "Drop it in here, and we can get the line moving again." He was holding out a small wooden crate which was already a quarter full with Sneakascopes, Omnioculars, Fizzing Whizbees, Exploding Bonbons and a set of Muggle police handcuffs with the initials G.W. engraved onto them.

With a sorrowful expression, Charlie did as requested.

"Great," Alex nodded, ever the gregarious American. "Now I'll just take your invitations, thanks..._great_. You fellas have an excellent night."

Bill dragged a grumbling Charlie into the tavern, while Harry paused at the doorway. "Alex, is Malfoy already inside?"

Alex was busy divesting Ernie McMillan of a bag of Psychedelic Every Flavour Beans. "Sure is. He was here an hour ago to check on security."

**

**7.20pm**

"First order of business," announced a grinning Lee Jordan, the Master of Ceremonies, "a special welcome from our illustrious bachelor!"

It was quite obvious that Draco had not been told about having to give a welcome-speech. He was seated with Harry and the Weasleys at a small table closest to the stage, and was thwarted in his attempts to 'blend in' when a spotlight searched and then located him.

"The crowd awaits," Ron prodded, looking more amused at Draco's discomfiture than was polite.

Everyone who had been present at any of Draco's pre-battle speeches watched with slight apprehension. He might have been silver-tongued in normal conversation, but when it came to delivering a speech, Draco was quite frankly, hopeless.

Even Harry, who abhorred speaking in public, was known to give more rousing talks. As such, Harry sipped his Gillywater-Light and watched as a scowling Draco was dragged onto stage by either a very brave or very foolish, Lee Jordan.

Harry had to admit, Draco looked good. But then it was seldom that he looked anything other than polished.

Predictably, he had not dressed according to the '1920s Mugglewear' theme, instead opting for a charcoal grey, fitted cashmere jumper, dark, flat front pants, and black boots. It wasn't that Harry cared too much about what he himself wore (much to the lament of the female acquaintances in his life), but even after spending nearly half the day putting his own outfit together, he still felt as if he was wearing Dudley Dursley's hand-me-downs.

Even Ron, who was seated beside Harry, looked sharp in his red and black shantung ensemble. He was also wearing a pair of red-tinted, wrap-around sunglasses that were imbued with a clothing transparency charm.

Everyone at the table had so far received a running commentary of 'boxers', 'briefs' and 'no comment'.

There was a lengthy pause on stage, as Draco made a fuss of taking his wand out. Lee Jordan came forward with a questioning look. What followed was a brief, whispered argument over whether Sonorous was required for such a small gathering. Still scowling, Draco relented and put away his wand. He cleared his throat, shoving his hands into his pockets.

The crowd began to mutter and fidget. Beside Harry, Ron was on tenterhooks of anticipation.

With a humourless expression, the Bachelor addressed his guests.

"Yes well, thank you for that Jordan. And here I was thinking that the end of Hogwarts meant we wouldn't have to hear another biased commentary from you ever again."

The crowd was silent for a moment, before erupting into hoots and whistles. Lee Jordan guffawed and slapped his thigh.

What followed, to everyone's combined amazement, was a crowd pleasing, rabble rousing, humorous and poignant speech from Draco regarding the journey that they had all taken together and where he was hoping to go with Hermione. When he was finished, the crowd applauded loudly. Over in the far corner of the tavern, Hagrid was blowing his nose into an enormous handkerchief.

Harry and Ron gaped at Draco, as he climbed down the stage and reclaimed his seat at their table. "You fraud," Ron scolded. "Back at Hogwarts, you couldn't motivate an ant to declare war on a sugar cube!"

"I didn't feel it was my duty to incite people to risk their lives. If they hadn't already made their choice, then it wasn't my job to persuade them," was Draco's reply. He picked up his drink where he had left it.

Harry knew what Ron was thinking. They could no longer rely on the _'yeah, but he gives the worse speeches'_ argument in opposition to claims from interviewing reporters that Draco was, in all respects, the perfect catch.

"Heads up lads, the first segment is about to begin," said Bill, from the table beside them. The eldest Weasley was flanked on either side by Fred and George. Charlie had long since disappeared into the men's room after foolishly sampling a cocktail of Fred's design.

"I have the extreme pleasure of presenting Ivan and Sputter! Fire Breathers from the exotic Far East!" announced Lee Jordan, quickly clearing off the stage to make way for the performers and their equipment.

Nobody thought it was necessary to point out to Fred that his 'Oriental' fire breathers had south London accents and were dressed in Knickerbockers and Bowler hats. Their twenty-minute act was spectacular enough to forestall any snide comments.

And for the finale, guests were invited to participate.

A bell was rung, whereupon a stream of serving girls bustled forth from the kitchens, carrying tray after tray of fist-sized marshmallows and long wooden skewers. It took a moment for everyone to note what the girls were wearing. Each waitress was clad in a very brief version of Slytherin school robes. Draco didn't pass comment, but from the corner of his eyes, Harry saw the amused smile that appeared fleetingly on Draco's pale face.

Once a suitable number of volunteers were obtained, the projectile flame throwing began in earnest. Upon successfully toasting his giant marshmallow in a flame stream that passed overhead, Bill sat down to devour the sticky, sweet, glob with a salacious grin.

The final spectacle involved intricate flame weaving. Ivan and Sputter worked quickly, spinning their creation with supreme concentration. The crowd gasped when they saw the large, flame-outlined dragon that was suspended in the air.

For some reason, most of the crowd fell silent, as all eyes turned to Draco. Draco obliged by regally making a 'carry on' gesture, after which the guests heartily applauded Ivan and Sputter. Lee Jordan assumed his position on stage once more

"Don't wander too far lads, we've got more coming up very shortly. Also, the waitresses will be going around selling raffle tickets for tonight's Lucky Dip Prize. All proceeds go to St Mungos, so dig deep!"

**

**8pm**

"What are we having, then?" Fred addressed his gathered compatriots, as a 'Slytherin Girl' came over to their table to take the next round of orders.

George, Bill and Charlie ordered ale, Draco asked for another glass of red wine, while Harry didn't want to order anything.

Ron slapped him hard on the back "Of course he wants something! He'll have an ale as well, thanks." Ron winked at the waitress, who was eyeing Ron's red sunglasses with suspicion.

"I don't want anything," insisted Harry. He was already looking quite flushed from his Gillywater-Light. "I'm trying to pace myself."

"Nonsense," waved Fred in dismissal. "Pacing is for Hufflepuffs."

"And will you be buying any raffle tickets?" the waitress asked, pulling out a purple booklet the size of _Hogwarts, a History_. It was her good fortune to be serving the wealthiest table at the pub that evening. Draco tossed her a bag of Galleons and purchased the entire booklet.

"What's the Lucky Dip prize, then?" Bill asked his brothers. "Only I reckon Malfoy's just about won it."

Fred shrugged. "No idea. We didn't have anything to do with it. Harry?"

"Not me."

"Must be Neville then. I'll go and ask him. George, you coming?"

George had already picked up his drink. "Lead the way, brother."

**

Seamus Finnegan, Neville Longbottom, Dean Thomas and Lee Jordan were occupying a table beside the bar. The men were hidden behind an impenetrable wall of empty ale tankards, and were in deep discussion when Fred and George joined them.

"''Lo there! You lads having a good evening?" Fred greeted, pulling up a chair next to Neville.

"Spanking evening," Lee declared. "We were just about to launch a friendly wager, care to join?"

George immediately looked interested. "What are we wagering?"

Seamus had a conspiratorial twinkle in his blue eyes. "Over there," he pointed with his mug. "Staff table."

The twins looked over to where Seamus was indicating. It was indeed the 'staff' table. Rubeus Hagrid, Filius Flitwick and Remus Lupin were having an animated conversation, with Flitwick climbing up on onto his chair every so often to pound his bottle of beer on the table.

George's eyes widened. "_He's_ a rowdy one."

Lee snorted. "That's nothing. He threw a basket of peanuts at Oliver Wood just before you two came over, though really, most of us have been itching to do that since Wood arrived. One of the security chaps had to Flitwick to 'take it down a notch'."

This development proved to be most intriguing to the gathered group of ex-Hogwarts students, most of who were used to a mild mannered, squeaky-voiced Flitwick. The same Flitwick who had been known to have difficulty controlling a first year, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw Charms class.

"It's the brew," Neville opinioned, nodding sagely.

"So Flitwick is the wager then?" Fred asked

Seamus was grinning from ear to ear. "Nuh. The wager's just come back from the men's' lavatory now."

The boys observed as a slim, dark haired young man joined the staff table, pulling his seat into very close proximity to Remus Lupin. Lupin had been about to take a swig from his bottle, but was waylaid by the stranger, who took a long swallow before putting the bottle back in Lupin's hand.

Fred and George were staring with their mouths agape. Lee chuckled. "Easy there lads, we're trying to be subtle here."

"George! This means you owe me fifty Galleons!"

"Hang on a minute, now," said Fred. "We can't be sure yet, they might just be friends. Relatives? Cousins maybe?" Fred was grasping at straws.

"I have a cousin who's a good friend and he doesn't do _that_," commented Neville, with raised eyebrows.

The stranger was currently running his hand along Lupin's right thigh.

Dean shook his head. "Bugger me sideways. I always knew that any man who could be that _nice_ all the time, and especially to Snape, had to be playing for the other side."

"Speaking of Snape, is the old Bat of the Dungeons here tonight?" Lee asked, looking around the crowded establishment.

"He's sitting on his own, over by the dance floor," Neville informed, in a quiet voice.

So he was. It was easy to miss the tall, austere, former Potions Master, seeing as he was dressed in his usual dark robes (not a Zoot Suit stripe to be seen) and seated in a small, dark corner. There was a mildly distastefully look on his face as he watched the proceedings. He didn't have a drink in front of him, either, but he had purchased a handful of raffle tickets.

The boys thought this was just shameful.

George tut-tutted. "Now there's a man who could use a good, hard-"

"Perhaps he'll win the Lucky Dip Prize," Neville interrupted, looking slightly uncomfortable that they were speaking ill of Snape.

"By the by," Fred said, remembering his reason for coming over to the table. "Neville, did you organise this raffle business?"

Neville nodded. "Seemed like a worthwhile cause. St Mungos could use the extra money."

Fred was in agreement. "Brilliant idea. But what _is_ the Lucky Dip Prize?"

The grin that settled across Neville's chubby face was decidedly un-Nevillelike.

"Ah, but that's a _surprise_."

**

**8.40pm**

Ron and Draco were left to their own, following Bill and Charlie's insistence that Harry accompany them on socialising rounds while everyone was still coherent and amiable. Before Harry left the table, however, he gave Ron a pointed look.

The meaning of said look was simple: _'Behave_.

Ron rolled his eyes. It wasn't that Ron had any hard feelings toward Draco from school, or that he still distrusted Draco. Rather, it was a very simply a case of him not liking Draco. _At all._

They were cordial to each other, but there had never been the easy (albeit sharp) banter that had eventually developed between Harry and Draco. The war was to blame, of course. Nothing banished old, petty, childhood rivalries and brought people together quite like a good, all out fight for peace amongst wizards.

It was a sore point between Ron and Harry. Ron considered Harry Potter to be, unequivocally, his best and most trusted companion on the planet, which was why he couldn't understand how they could feel _so_ differently about the same person.

Ron didn't like that he couldn't _read_ Draco. It seemed unnatural that someone could be able to control basic emotions like anger and surprise with such efficiency. Nothing seemed to settle over Draco's face without first being passed through some sort of emotional filter. How could anyone get close to someone like that? Any sort of intimacy, platonic or otherwise seemed impossible.

Which was why Ron couldn't fathom how Hermione managed any sort of relationship with Draco. Hermione was a well of emotion, most of it warm, nurturing, and passionate. She cared deeply, and was capable of disliking just as vehemently. But even when they had been children, she had not disliked indiscriminately. If someone had not been worth the negative emotion, Hermione would simply reign in her dislike and move on. Ron couldn't count the number of times she had stepped between him, and Draco, or between Harry and Draco, for that matter. She would place a small, firm hand on either boy's chest and prevent an imminent cursing or fist fight with a simple, pointed _look_.

It was the look that had captured Draco's attention, no doubt. No one could raise and deliver an argument or settle conflict quite like Hermione. She was special.

Ron had no doubts that Draco, with his money, his looks, his mysterious and irritating brooding nature, his ridiculously, complex agendas, was appealing to some women. Hermione wasn't a raving beauty. She was, however, graced with a slenderness that would follow her into old age, wide, clear eyes that mirrored her every thought or feeling, clean, smooth skin light dusted with freckles, and a voice that could make even a Tattler article sound convincing. She was pretty, yes, but there would always be more beautiful witches.

But when it came to character, however, Hermione was in a class of her own.

She was _their_ Hermione, he and Harry's. And grudgingly, Ron realised he was mature enough to admit that her impending marriage to Draco played a large part in Ron's dislike of Draco.

With a dark scowl, he tossed back the remains of his drink, hailing a passing waitress for a fresh tankard.

The war had also brought Draco and Hermione together. There was no doubting that. It had produced a purpose and an avenue for redemption in Draco, or at least it had in the eyes of everyone other than Hermione. Hermione did not require Draco to be redeemed, simply because she had already recognised that aspect of him already. To Hermione, there was no surprise in the path Draco had chosen to take. Everyone else had been duly skeptical, but Hermione had just got on with business as usual.

Ron recalled how he and Harry had watched, on that winter's morning more than a year ago, when Draco and Hermione had walked side by side into the Great Hall, fairly charging the air around them with the unmistakable sizzle of sex.

Sex between wizards and witches was more than just a joining of bodies, more than the mere closing of distance between skin or between molecules. Sometimes, an alliance could create an open feed, a two-way channel for potent, magical energy to flow from one person into another. Ron had seen this happen with his parents, and so was able to recognise what he was witnessing when he saw the couple that morning.

Nothing had been said, simply because they all had had more important things to worry about at the time. But Ron had heard Harry's whisper-soft intake of breath, and he had wondered what his friend had been thinking. It would have been an exercise in futility to have asked Harry though, seeing as Harry had taken an unofficial vow of silence for most of that horrible year. Now that so much time had passed, Ron thought it pointless to dredge up the old memory, especially since Draco had Harry had come to a comfortable understanding.

Ron watched then, as the waitress brought over his drink. She spared him a polite smile before turning her attention to Draco, asking if he too would like a refresher. This was despite the fact that Draco had taken less than three sips at his red wine since it had arrived.

Draco's interest, which had been previously located within the warm burgundy contents of his glass, transferred to the waitress, who flushed and fidgeted under his stare.

Ron was used to observing this. Man, woman or child, people in general found it hard holding Draco's pale, grey stare for long. Eyes that lightly coloured should have given off an impression of clarity and openness, but in Draco's case, they were nearly a superfluous part of his face.

Unusual, yes, but decidedly cold.

A quick decline from Draco sent the girl scurrying away, and the silver gaze picked its next target.

"Sickle for your thoughts, Weasley."

Ron didn't hesitate. "I was thinking about Hermione."

Draco pulled a silver timepiece from his pocket. "I'd say she, Ginny and the girls are probably enduring an intensive hair braiding or toe nail painting session right about now."

"Lavender is a force to be reckoned with," Ron agreed, before taking a swallow from his ale.

Draco made an affirmative noise. "I'm sure Voldemort thought the same when she stabbed him through the hand with his own quill."

Ron set his drink down sharply. That was the _other_ thing about Draco. He refused to obey the unspoken rule that nobody was to mention the events of the final battle unless it was expressly required. War anecdotes were not to be slipped into casual, genial conversation.

Draco was watching Ron carefully now. "I do believe I've spoken out of turn."

"Yes, well you make your own rules, don't you?" Ron said irritably.

"These memories aren't going to get sweeter for lack of being mentioned, Weasley."

Ron narrowed his eyes. "Then why mention them?"

"I've been told by certain well meaning, irritatingly persistent former Head Masters, that the first step to recovery is acceptance. I think this is referred to as the 'get over it' school of rehabilitation."

Ron sat a little straighter in his seat. "Don't you talk to me about 'getting over it', Malfoy. I lost a brother. There's no getting over _that_."

"I lost a matching set of parents," Draco said, but not in an equally vehement tone. It was more the statement of a fact.

"Don't you compare Percy to your...your... to _those_ people."

Draco folded his arms, but his expression remained serene. "Why not, Weasley? Percy was a Death Eater, just like my parents."

He dared. He actually said it. "Percy was _not_ like your parents! He was-"

"What?" Draco interrupted. "One of _you_? Good? Pure to begin with? Corrupted by the Dark Lord's superb Junior Death Eater recruitment drive? I hear they were giving away badges and desk calendars that year. This was all before I signed up, of course."

Ron lunged across the table, sending his chair toppling backwards. He would have grabbed Draco around the collar if Harry hadn't arrived in time to pull him away.

"For fuck's sake Ron!" Harry hissed, wrapping both arms Ron's middle and pulling his friend backwards.

"You bastard," Ron seethed at Draco. With a look of wounded dignity, he shook Harry's hands off him, and promptly stalked off into the crowd.

"Malfoy, was that really necessary?" Harry demanded tiredly. He made to go after Ron, but Draco stopped him, a curious look on his face.

"What _does_ he know about Percy?"

Harry sighed. "Everything. But try mentioning it and he shuts down. Bill has made it his personal mission this summer to tie Ron to a chair and have it out with him about Percy."

Draco thought the idea had merit. He rose from his seat. "Stay here Potter. I'll get him."

Harry gave him a look. "You do realise you're meant to be getting married tomorrow morning. Won't look good in the pictures with a black eye."

Draco smiled as he swung his cloak off the chair and onto his back in one, fluid motion. "If he gets close enough to give me a black eye. I'll deserve to look bad in my wedding photos."

"Think of Hermione," Harry said, returning the grin.

Draco sighed. "That's precisely what I'm doing."

**

_Arrogant bastard,_ Ron silently fumed as he elbowed the backdoors of the pub open with a tad more force than was necessary, and stalked out into the Hogsmeade back alley.

_Smug, pretentious, prick!_

It was bad enough that he had lost his cool with Malfoy, but then Harry had to come along and witness his momentary lapse of control. The urge to hurl a finger at Malfoy's direction and decry, in an insistent voice that, _"he started it!"_ had been strong.

Of course, that course of action had never worked with their professors at school. Everyone got detentions, everyone paid. It wouldn't have worked with Harry either.

There was a time when Harry would have backed him up, no matter how ridiculous the situation was or how absurd the argument. Whether taking on a mountain troll, fending off a hundred, hungry Acromantulas or navigating a flying car across the countryside, Harry was _always_ been on his side.

Not tonight however. Not that beating Malfoy into a bloody, blond, pulp would have solved matters. But it would have made Ron feel a great deal better. He could already hear his mother's nagging voice, "Weasleys do not settle disputes with their fists!"

It was a noble ideal for Molly Weasley to hold on to, despite the fact that nearly every year, one of the Wealsey brothers almost always hobbled into the Burrow with a bloody nose and a grumbled apology.

Mostly, they got into scraps over cheating in games, incessant teasing or from pilfering prized personal items. Once, Ginny had once hit him over the head with a copper kettle for painting a moustache on her prized Queen Guinevere Doll. Molly and Arthur had been away attending Bill's graduation ceremony that day, and so it had been Percy who had Flooed a bleeding Ron to St Mungos.

It was hard to think of your dead brother as a traitorous Death Eater when your brother had been the one to hold your hand and comfort you while nurses cleaned your hurts.

He didn't expect Malfoy to understand something like that. From what Ron had garnered about the late Lucius and Narcissa, the closest thing Draco had ever come to an 'I love you' was the time Draco had won his first Quidditch Match as Captain of Slytherin, in their sixth year. Lucius had couriered over an enormous crate of custom made, Belgian chocolates for the entire team, with an accompanying card on which was written, _'Expect shipment of new brooms within the week.'_

Bloody Malfoys.

Ron walked on, not caring where he was going as long as he kept moving. The cool air was tempering his anger, but he was still fuming. With a muttered expletive, he kicked at a pile of wooden crates, sending them sprawling across the cobblestones. He pulled his sunglasses off his head and tucked them into his break pockets, only just realising that the horde of press photographers who had been stationed outside the Three Broomsticks were no longer around.

This was a good thing, Ron decided, seeing as he was in dire need of a piss.

Not wanting to be caught by an errant reported quite literally with his pants down, Ron continued walking until he reached the end of the alley. There, he selected a dark, dingy corner and a suitable, anonymous, wall.

**

**9.10pm**

There wasn't even time to call out a warning.

Draco had followed a furious Ron out of the pub, watched as the other man muttered under his breath, attacked a stack of wooden crates, before marching straight into the back end of the alley. Draco arrived at the head of the alleyway in time to see the two, dark cloaked figures separate from the shadows and advance on an unsuspecting Ron.

The idiot was currently watering the red bricks at the back of Dervish and Banges, his back turned to the mouth of the alley, completely oblivious to the fact that he was about to be attacked.

A shout would have potentially spun Ron around, in time to meet the Killing Curse that Ron's stalkers most certainly planned on delivering. The larger of the two assailants produced a wand and silently approached Ron.

Draco did the same.

**

Ron wasn't drunk, but he _had_ consumed a fairly large quantity of ale, and as such, his reflexes were not as sharp as usual. He heard the soft swish of a parted cloak behind him, and immediately fumbled into his jacket to remove his wand. But there was no time; he would not be able to cast a spell or feint before he was hit.

With an eerie calmness, Ron vaguely wondered if Harry or one of his brothers would see fit to zip up his fly before the press began swarming around to try and take a picture of his body. As it was, his wand was half removed from his jacket when the first two syllables of the curse that no spell could block, were spoken.

It was then that Ron found himself knocked to the ground with enough force that he bit right through his bottom lip. The scent of a familiar aftershave and the feel of thick wool tossed over his head told him that Draco had Apparated right on top of him.

"Stay down," Draco hissed, holding Ron flat against the worn stones.

Ron felt the surface of Draco's cloak expand, enveloping the pair under a blanket of invisibility. It was just as well that the cloak was charmed to fit whatever was beneath it. If it had been Harry's cloak, they would have been hard pressed squashing their grown-up bulks underneath.

Their attackers were immediately panicked, which indicated that they were a couple of broom twigs short of being professional hit men. Had they been members of Voldemort's Inner Circle, Ron would have been dead and quite cold by the time anyone found him.

"You fool, you missed! Where did they go?" It was a woman's voice. High pitched, tremulous.

"I didn't miss," said the other attacker, pointing to the smoking, green hole in the wall where Ron's head had been moments earlier. "He's here...somewhere."

The man took a step forward, his foot stopping inches from Ron's head. Beside him, Ron felt Draco tense. Ron's split lip was bad. It was also bleeding profusely down his chin. A tiny rivulet of red dripped onto the uneven cobblestones, gathering into a crevice and appearing outside the invisibility boundary created by Draco's cloak. With a silent curse, Ron slapped a hand over his throbbing mouth in an effort to staunch the flow.

For a moment, the male attacker made to turn away, but then happened to glance downwards. The dark, red liquid had just made contact with the tip of his shoe.

"Wait!" he said to his partner, holding up a hand.

"Now!" ordered Draco, at the same time.

His wand now grasped firmly in his hand, Ron Apparated behind their assailants. Draco leaped to his feet with his wand trained at the midsection of the male attacker.

Unlike their unfortunate assailants, the members of Dumbledore's Army were extremely well trained.

"Stupefy!"

"Impedimenta!"

"PETRIFICUS TOTALIS!" The third spell was cast by Alastor Moody, who had appeared at the foot of the alley, looking and sounding extremely out of breath. Ten armed companions followed him, the average age of whom looked to be about eighty. They were all dressed in azure robes with hoods that were lined with white ermine. The uniform of the Retired Aurors League, Ron recalled, with relief.

"You lads alright?" Moody demanded. He hobbled onto the scene, prodding the Petrified female attacker none too gently with his shoe.

Draco nodded, before looking pointedly at Ron. The lower part of Ron's face was a raw, red mess.

Moody called out to a thin, silver haired woman. Draco recognised her as one of Auror Medics who had worked at St Mungos during the war.

"Phyllis Dearling," she introduced herself, as she went to inspect Ron's nearly severed lip. She cast a Stitch and Suture charm over the injured area. Ron made a great deal of fuss over the sting, but thanked Medic Dearling once his mouth was repaired. His lower lip was still very red and angry, but the wound was cleansed and sealed.

"Scourgify," Draco added, passing his wand over Ron's lapels. Most of the red strains lifted. Lucky for Ron, his shantung suit was mostly red anyway.

"Thanks," Ron said, rubbing a bruised elbow.

Moody was shaking his misshapen head. "A wizard can't take a piss these days without looking over his shoulder. Do either of you boys know her?" He pulled back the hood of the unconscious woman.

Ron shook his head. Draco stared for a moment, frowning. "That's Morad Goyle. Which probably means that the Stupefied piece of filth over there is her _brother_."

He walked over to inspect the other attacker. "Gregory!" Draco greeted, in a voice that would have been more at home at Sunday luncheon with the family. "Looking remarkably well for a dead man," Draco commented. He kicked Goyle's stiffened form over, such that Goyle now lay on his back.

"Let's see what he has to say," Moody muttered. With a hiss of discomfort, Moody bent down and tapped his wand once on Goyle's shoulder. "Enervate."

Goyle's reaction was instantaneous. His small eyes narrowed and locked onto Draco. "Screw you, traitor!"

"Nothing quite as frustrating as unrequited affection, is there?" Draco inquired, in a jaunty voice. He placed a booted foot on Goyle's chest and pressed down. "Out with it, Goyle. Who sent you?"

Goyle spat on Draco's boot.

"You'd better tell me. I'm missing my own party and that makes me very peeved. You know what I'm like when I'm peeved, don't you, Goyle?"

"You're a dead man, Malfoy! You, Zabini and all the other Muggle loving filth!"

Draco released a long, exasperated sigh. "Haven't any of you been reading the papers? Or then again, maybe you hadn't yet learned by the time you left school? No matter, I'll summarise the headlines for you, Goyle. You. Lost. The. War."

"The Dark Lord still has supporters Draco! You'll never be safe, you and your Mudblood whore. Your wards and your guards can't keep us away forever."

Gregory Goyle was not known for his book-smarts, but as was often the case with bullies, he knew how to deliver a choice taunt. With a smarmy grin on his broad face, he continued. "Tell me Draco, are you still sharing that used piece of baggage with Potter and Weasley? I suppose it's a good thing Lucius isn't alive to witness your disgrace. Was that a final act of kindness for your dear father, Draco? Killed him before he got to see what you've become?"

Beside him, Ron heard Medic Dearling wince.

Goyle's large bulk was instantly wrenched from the ground and slammed against the alley wall with enough force that a sprinkling of dust and cement rained down briefly. One meaty hand was pinned against the bricks. With a calm expression, Draco put the weight of his shoulder into a sharp movement that twisted Goyle's wrist almost the entire way around. The sound of snapping bone echoed against the walls of the alley. Goyle wailed.

This time, no one made a sound. Ron and the Aurors watched with a steely reserve that had seen them through the worst of the war's atrocities.

"Pay attention, Goyle. I've broken your scaffoid. It is a notoriously difficult bone to heal," Draco informed, in a clinical tone. He tilted his head to one side to observe Gregory's purpling face from a different angle. "Does it hurt?"

Goyle was sputtering with pain, but he did not respond.

Draco was far from finished. He looked over his shoulder at Phyllis Dearling. "Medic Dearling, would you be so kind as to fix Goyle's hand?"

Dearling gave him a brief, questioning look, but came forth and did as requested. The bone was quickly mended. The skin was still heavily bruised, but already the darkness was receding. The spell was usually followed through with an analgesic, either directly applied or administered via a charm. Dearling did not bother with this.

Draco waited until Goyle's ragged breathing had evened out. When he looked somewhat recovered, Draco took hold of the same hand and broke it again.

This time, Goyle did not hold back. He howled like a wounded animal. Draco then pulled his fist back and slammed it into Goyle's sizeable midsection. The Death Eater doubled over, winded and in pain.

"How long does the scaffoid take to heal without magical intervention?" Draco asked Dearling, watching a gasping Goyle with a predatory satisfaction.

Dearling was stony faced when she answered. "About eight weeks."

"Eight weeks then, Goyle," Draco told him. "Perhaps I'll pay you a visit in Azkaban every eight weeks, whereupon I will break that same bone. Again and again. And do you know why they'll let me? They'll let me because I'm Draco Malfoy. Harry Potter, and me, we're _golden_, you see. We're the fucking saviours of the wizarding world. They'll even let me slip into your cell in the dead of night to slit your throat from ear to ear. The guards will whistle and pace the corridors to cover up the sound of you asphyxiating on your own blood." Draco took a step forward and ran a finger under Goyle's chin, in a morbid demonstration. "But I wouldn't kill you like that, Goyle. Not my style. You know that about me, don't you?"

Goyle wasn't quite blubbering as yet, but his pain stricken face was fearful.

Ron had not worked directly with Draco during the course of the war. When they had been in contact, it had mostly been to relay information. Thus, he had never had the chance to witness Draco the Death Eater in action. It was some spectacle.

The well-mannered, civilized young man who had given a speech and drank with the other boys earlier in the evening was on hiatus. All that was left was the embodiment of the rage and displacement they all felt, and yet never spoke about.

Idly, Ron wondered how much of Draco's much lauded interrogation techniques Hermione had witnessed.

"I will continue to pay you these visits every eight weeks, for each miserable year of my life that I spent in your presence," Draco continued. "That's almost seven years, Gregory. How long do you think before your hand becomes a mangled, twisted stump? Before your fingers are so crooked and grotesque that you won't be able to feed yourself, or button your prison robes or hold your cock to piss? And on the days when I'm busy with worth or at home with my pretty wife, I'll have Harry Potter take over the task for me. When Harry's busy, perhaps Ron here will volunteer?"

Ron's face was grim when Goyle's eyes darted up to look up at him.

"You're a strong man, Gregory, but there'll come a point when you _will_ break and you will plead with us to spare you, to leave you be, or perhaps to break some other part of your miserable person instead. Have a good, long think, Gregory. If you don't provide us with your full cooperation, and should anything happen to Hermione Granger, I'll have a world of free time. And I do so like to visit with old friends..."

This last sentence was whispered with a smile, and it prompted Goyle into a fruitless bid for escape. He attempted to wrestle free from Draco's grasp, and to give him credit, was doing a fair job of it. Draco was a taller than Goyle, but Goyle was twice as heavy and twice as wide.

Moody stepped forward and cast a swift Immobulus over the struggling captive. Goyle immediately fell to the ground, a frantic look frozen on his blotchy face. There was no love lost between Draco and Moody (Draco have never quite forgiven Moody for transfiguring him into a ferret in his fourth year), but the two men now huddled together in cooperative conference, speaking in low tones. Ron was vaguely able to overhear the words, 'interrogation', 'Azkaban' and 'alert Snape'.

Draco's hands rested on his hips as he listened to Moody, nodding occasionally. His silver eyes met Ron's serious gaze for a brief moment before quickly flickering away.

Ron knew the look. It was the same look he gave his mother when he was unsure of whether he had done something very, very bad.

The scene with Goyle had shaken Draco more than the man would care to admit. It had been fair amount of time since any of them had been forced to use some of the more unsavoury skills they had acquired over the course of the war. Draco's attention was back on Moody now, but Ron saw that Draco's hand was clenched hard in the folds of his cloak, his thumb rubbing over the cygnet ring on his third finger. _Lucius's ring._

Perhaps the man was human after all.

Fifteen minutes later, after more barked orders from Moody, four Aurors escorted the prisoners from the scene. The remaining RAL members quietly and quickly resumed their posts around the vicinity of the pub. Moody remained behind to walk Ron and Draco back to the Three Broomsticks.

"Weasley, tell me you managed to repackage yourself prior to my lying on top of you," Draco said, as they walked.

"And if I hadn't?"

"One more recurring nightmare can't hurt, I suppose."

Ron snorted.

"Look, Wealsey, when we go in-"

"Yes, I know. We're not telling Harry or the others right away, because they all have enough on their plates and we don't want to add to it."

Draco paused at the backdoors of the pub. "There seems to be a lot of that going around lately I take it?"

Ron nodded, looking resigned. He remembered his manners then. "Moody, could we tempt you with a drink?"

The scarred, old Auror responded by smacking his lips together. He placed a hand on the backs of both men, and all but shoved them inside the pub. "Can't. On duty."

"You sure? Seniors drink half price tonight."

Moody's lopsided face was near impossibly to read, but he did flip Ron the Irish Bird. There wasn't any time for further pleasantries either, seeing as Moody slammed the heavy doors shut in their faces.

**

**9.40pm**

There were ten things on Remus's Lupin's 'Things To Do Before I Die' list. Four things have been achieved and thus checked off by the time he had graduated from Hogwarts.

Three more things were carried out in the years preceding Voldemort's second comeback. It was with great satisfaction now, that he was able to put a mental tick next to 'Swing Dancing with Attractive Female' at Draco Malfoy's bachelor party.

Well, all except for the 'female' part.

It had been slightly disconcerting when Tonks had emerged from his bedroom that evening, dressed in a white tuxedo, plus-fours, shiny wing tip shoes and a flawless male glamour. She had fashioned herself into quite an attractive man that evening, with soft, chestnut coloured hair, and large, almond shaped, brown eyes.

The band that the Weasley twins had hired for the evening had been idling away in the corner playing variations of what someone in the crowd referred to as 'Muggle elevator music.' The request to play swing music was met with welcome sighs of relief.

"About time someone asked," grumbled the trumpet player. The band had after all been chosen for their proficiency in the Muggle 'Big Band' style of music.

As the group launched into an enthusiastic medley, Remus took a gleeful Tonks by the hand, leading her out towards the dance floor.

"Hrrm, said Tonks, "I think I'm too tall to partner you."

Terribly handy skill, morphing, Remus thought, as Tonks adjusted the height of her male disguise accordingly. By the time they reached the middle of the dance floor, the top of her head was at Remus's eye level.

"Are people staring yet?" she inquired, as Remus twirled her under his arm. They had been attending dance lessons together for six months now, and it was showing.

"Oh yes."

"Do you mind?"

"Of course not. But did you have to make yourself so attractive? For once, I would have liked to have been the prettier one," Remus grumbled, as he swung her away from him in a spin, and then skilfully retrieved her.

"Don't be silly, Remus. You're very pretty."

He laughed as he deftly flipped her over his left shoulder. "Thank you, Tonks. A man likes to be told that every so often."

"Is Snape staring yet?" asked a breathless, grinning Tonks.

"Dunno, switch sides and I'll see."

The pair executed a series of side-shimmies, which ended with them swapping positions on the dance floor.

"He's starring," Remus confirmed, snapping his fingers in time to the four-four beat.

"Oh good. Lindyhop then?"

"Yes, let's."

**

**10pm**

Seamus was blinking repeatedly, Lee was unnaturally silent, while Neville, looking shaken and not a little bit stirred, slammed down his vodka shot and continued watching.

Dean finally broke the silence. "He's quite...flexible."

"Who? Lupin or his friend?" queried Neville.

"Either," said Dean. "Both."

"Ah! Here's Ron and Malfoy," Seamus whispered, trying to attract the attention of a waitress. "Quickly lads, drinks!"

"Am I missing something?" Ron inquired, taking a seat across from Seamus.

Dean enlightened the new arrivals. "We're aiming to get Harry thoroughly soused by the end of tonight. Any excuse for another round is welcomed."

"And you seem to be doing rather well in your cunning plan," Draco commented, looking up at a bleary-eyed, bemused looking Harry. His hair was in a very bad way, as if it too were intoxicated.

"Good lord," Ron said, looking startled. He had only just observed what half the guests in the pub were currently gawking at. While the other boys filled in an uninformed Ron, on the Lupin-and-friend-swing-dancing development (and related wagers), Harry took to staring at Draco.

"'Lo again," chirped Harry.

Draco gave him a wary look. "Evening, Potter."

"Everything go alright, I take it?" Harry asked, making less than subtle head inclinations in Ron's direction. The smile on his face was so wide it looked painful.

"Quite alright, yes."

The waitress arrived, more drinks were ordered, and throughout all this, Harry continued to stare.

"Can I help you with something, Potter?"

"Draco, do you want to _race_?"

"Beg yours?" Draco could not recall the last time Harry had addressed him by his first name, nor asked something quite so silly.

"Race. On brooms," Harry explained, his green eyes wide with excitement. "Your Scorpion Sting against my Firebolt."

A dozen different comebacks were lined up for delivery, but Draco decided there was little challenge in goading a less-than-there Harry. So he said, "Not right now, no."

Harry looked crestfallen. He sat in pouting silence for a minute, until Draco caught him staring again.

"Why not?"

"Because you're foxed and Hermione would be heartbroken if you missed the wedding on account of crashing into a tree and breaking your neck," Draco snapped.

"I'm not foxed!"

Draco caught Ron's smothered laugh. The two men shared a brief, amused glance.

Not foxed indeed. "Very well then, Potter, what's the third ingredient of Befuddlement Potion?"

"Diced Lacewings."

Draco looked irritated at being thwarted so quickly. "And what do you have when you add crushed scarab to a base of Hellebore and Mallowsweet?"

"Aggression Potion."

"Otherwise known as?"

"Draught of War."

Draco frowned. Ron was openly laughing now. "Go on Malfoy, try Herbology. He's rotten at that."

"Yes, well so am I," Draco conceded, with a sniff.

Neville stepped in. "Harry, what are the four most common uses of Aconite?"

Harry was pleased to oblige. "Anodyne, diuretic, diaphoretic and Wolfsbane Potion."

Everyone at the table stared at Harry.

"Blimey Seamus, what have you been giving him?" Ron asked, passing a hand in front of Harry's face. Harry remained cheerfully unblinking.

Draco picked up the half empty bottle in front of Harry and sniffed it suspiciously. The unlabelled drink was pink, fragrant and contained a multitude of frothy bubbles.

"He wanted to take it easy, so I got him a couple of those," Seamus shrugged. "They're pink. Girly drinks, I figured. Can't possibly do any harm."

**

**11pm**

"Nymphadora Tonks. I should have known," Snape said, reluctantly taking the pink bottle of drink that was offered to him.

"Should you have?" Tonks asked. She was still wearing her male guise, but had chosen to speak to Snape in her own voice.

"Lost your lap, have you?" Snape inquired tartly.

"It's only a lap when Remus is sitting down, but he's been dancing for over an hour now," Tonks grumbled, but then her face suddenly lit up. "Might I borrow yours, Snape?"

Snape sputtered, wiping pink froth from his upper lip. "You most certainly may not."

Tonks chuckled, not looking in the least bit put out. She remained standing beside Snape's secluded table, tapping her foot in time to the music.

_Damn her_, Snape thought. And damn his curiosity too, which was not so easily appeased. "Wouldn't Lupin mind?" he found himself asking.

"Why would he? You're assuming I'm a one lap girl, then?"

"And you're not?"

"I'm a one lap girl as much as Remus is a one lap man," she responded, her foot-tapping continuing unhindered.

This lap nonsense was getting confusing. "What you do with Lupin is your business. I'll thank you not to involve me."

Tonks raised her dark eyebrows. "So you don't want to get involved then? I'll go and tell Remus. Only he sent me to ask." She turned to walk away, but Snape stopped her by catching hold of her wrist.

Snape gaped at her. "He sent you to ask _what_?" Tonks spoke in a slow, careful tone. As if she was speaking to an elderly, slightly befuddled person. "He sent me, to ask you, if you wanted to join us later at his flat in Surrey. He really has nice digs," she added, with an approving nod.

"Tonks, are you…propositioning me?" Snape asked, with the incredulity of a house elf being offered decent wages, overtime pay and a dental plan.

"Technically, Remus is propositioning you. I'm just backing him up. My, that's a terribly pun." She giggled at her folly.

Snape was in a mood to agree. Tonks ought to be congratulated really, she had succeeded in doing what nobody else had yet managed to achieve.

"Quite frankly, I'm speechless."

"No, no," she shook her finger at him. "You can't be speechless Severus, you're voice would be so sorely missed."

Snape looked at his Order colleague, who despite being slightly accident-prone was an upstanding member of the magical community and not in any way unattractive.

A sceptical expression settled over his face. He took another swallow of the strange, pink drink, and found that he was developing a liking for the taste. It was dulling the irritation he usually felt at being in Tonk's effervescent presence.

**

Oliver Wood thought that he had impeccable timing. He had the good fortune of walking past Snape's table, just in time to overhear Lupin's date for the evening invite his former Potions Professor back to Lupin's place for a romp.

Oh good, Oliver thought, as he scurried over to tell Lee Jordan. Lee now owed him seventy-five Galleons, and although Oliver was already a very wealthy young wizard, a bet was still a bet.

**

**Midnight**

Diane de Poitiers certainly knew how to make an entrance.

She appeared on stage in a puff of silver smoke, just as soon as Lee Jordan finished announcing her segment. Everyone reclaimed their tables and settled down to watch what promised to be a spectacular show. She was to perform alone, accompanied by a gnarled, old goblin who strummed an accompanying melody on an enchanted lyre.

"Here be the tale of the Maiden and the Dragon," said the goblin, striking a single, resonant note. "She who battled the fierce beast, to avenge her beloved!"

Diane shed her long, silver robes, revealing thigh-length chain mail, a set of gauntlets, a tiny, silver shield, plenty of bare, smooth skin, and an enormous sword.

Charlie clapped excitedly.

More melodic strumming followed. "The lady wandered far and abroad, through field and forest, through snow laden mountains and scorched desert sands..."

The crowd watched appreciatively as de Poitiers began to dance and sway, moving her lithe limbs in time to the Goblin's rhythmic strumming. Her waist length hair trailed behind her like a silken cowl. She executed a series of spectacular back flips, ending in a split position at one corner of the stage, directly in front of Bill.

"Away... away," Bill muttered, shielding his eyes from what was revealed through the scanty chain mail. "I'm a married man."

"On a stormy winter shore, did she find her beast, a-slumbering!"

The sound of crashing waves could be heard through the tavern. A fierce, salty sea breeze blew over the heads of the guests. The highlight however, was the enormous, misty white dragon that appeared, taking up what was little room was left on the small stage.

The crowd gasped. The beast was curled in sleep, occasionally snorting a jet of steam from its nostrils.

"The maiden, she did creep, upon her deadly foe. Her sword held high, her eyes ablaze with vengeance soon to be delivered," the goblin whispered, in a dramatic fashion that caused an impatient looking Filius Flitwick to yell, "Get on with it already!"

Diane held the sword high above her head, spinning rapidly and then falling to her knees beside the dragon. The dragon awoke, its boulder sized head reared up as it snarled menacingly at the crowd.

"The lady and the dragon they fought, they sparred!"

The dragon blew an arc of blue flame across the stage. The flames landed at Diane's feet, exploding into a shower of silver sparks. A significant portion of de Poitier's chain mail dissolved, revealing a clean line of skin, from hip to shoulder.

Another jet of flame chased her across the stage, and the audience watched in suspended fascination as she danced and taunted the stream of fire. There were more than a few groans when she escaped the flame, preserving what was left of her costume.

The goblin was strumming more quickly now. "Tooth against sword, talons and shield. A flame to rival the fiercest forge, a deadly whisper of brimstone and sulphur..."

The set was rapidly building up to some sort of climax. The dragon looked increasingly perturbed. It reared up on its hind legs, and it seemed that the ceiling of the Three Broomsticks magically expanded to accommodate the spectacular illusion. The best roared loudly enough to extinguish the candelabras suspended from the rafters.

Tables and chairs vibrated, bottles tipped over. Charlie was on his feet, yelling instructions to the tune of, "Use the sword! Use the sword!"

Ron realised he was gripping onto his tankard handle with white-knuckled fingers. He dragged his eyes away from the performance to glance at Draco.

Draco seemed to be frozen in the act of bringing his wine glass to his lips.

"Don't worry, Malfoy," Ron quickly whispered. "It's not real."

"Sod of, Weasley."

The Goblin continued. "She thrust the sword, sure and swift, into the dragon's bosom!"

Charlie hooted.

Hagrid bellowed.

In the throes of death, the dragon released a final puff of thick blue smoke from its nostrils, which enveloped a serene looking de Poitiers.

When the smoke was gone, only she remained, illuminated under a single spotlight. All that was left of her costume was a pair of charred gauntlets. No one moved, no one breathed.

Time stood still for an eternity it seemed, until Draco put his glass down and started clapping.

The cheers and whistles that followed were deafening. De Poitiers remained on stage as one of her attendants brought forth her silver robe and wrapped her in it.

Lee Jordan took his place once more. "Diane de Poitiers, gents," he began, in a slightly squeaky voice. He cleared his throat. "I hope everyone's kept their raffle tickets, because I'm about to announce the winner of the Lucky Dip prize!"

An imitation of the Hogwarts' Sorting Hat was brought on stage with much fanfare.

"Miss de Poitiers, if you would be so kind as to draw the winning ticket?" Lee asked.

Diane tossed her mane of hair over the shoulder, a regal look taking the place of her seductive smile. She reached one elegant hand into the hat, and drew out a large, purple ticket.

Lee looked slightly troubled once the winning name had appeared across the stub. The reason for this was soon obvious. "Er, it appears that the winner is Draco Malfoy."

George clapped Draco on the back. "Excellent! Come on then Jordan, what does he win?"

"He wins a private performance by Miss de Poitiers," said Lee, looking worriedly at Neville, and then at Ron.

Ron did not look pleased. "Good one, Neville. If Hermione finds out, we're dead."

Harry interrupted further bickering by suddenly jumping to his feet with a startled look, and running off into the crowd.

**

"Would you like a drink, Mr. Malfoy?" Diane de Poitiers asked, once she and Draco were safely festooned in her private rooms above the pub.

The accommodations at the Three Broomsticks were not exactly five-star, but de Poitiers was apparently the sort who took her luxuries with her when she travelled.

The entire room had been re-done in what could only be described as old world, bordello style. The enormous four-poster in the centre of the room was draped in dark pink silks, charmed to flitter about in an imaginary breeze.

Persian rugs covered almost every inch of the scrubbed wooden floors. There were damask upholstered chairs, colourful stripped chintzes, fringed pouffes and what looked to be a backgammon board laid out on a parlour table. Overall, the décor was a mix of saccharine sweetness and less than subtle seduction.

The scent of jasmine should have been overpowering, but Draco found that it made him slightly drowsy and more relaxed than he was comfortable with. A stiff drink would probably do him good. He accepted the cut crystal tumbler that Diane offered him.

"Slovstirrfk," she said.

"Gazunheit," Draco responded, blinking against the pleasant lethargy that enveloped him as he sat in a chair. No doubt his strange mood had something to do with him being in the immediate vicinity of a woman who was part Veela.

Veela magic was old and powerful (as was so eloquently demonstrated at the Quidditch World Cup). Most of the top courtesans had Veela blood, although Veelas were also well known for a very rigorous intellect. More often than not however, their spectacular looks waylaid any academic ambitions. It was both a gift and a curse.

"Silly," Diane scolded, with impressive artifice. "In my home country of Molvania, Slovstirrfk is our national beverage."

Draco took a sip of the scentless, tinsel-coloured liquid. It was very warm and burned a scorched path down his throat. To his pleasant surprise, he felt the warmth quickly spreading through his body. His extremities fairly tingled.

"Garlic brandy," said Diane, with an amused look at Draco's raised eyebrows. "But the scent and taste are almost completely neutralised. It is a healing drink, good for you," she nodded.

She was still dressed in her silver, performance robes. Her gauntlets were resting on a dressing table however, which meant that under the robe, she was dressed in a multitude of golden skin. And nothing else.

Presently, she leaned against her dresser, arms crossed over her chest, regarding Draco with a familiar, amused look. It was the look Draco had seen Bill and Charlie Weasley bestow upon their younger siblings, a look that attempted to proclaim their superior wisdom and experience.

Like Usille, Draco could not discern de Poitiers's age, and also like Usille, de Poitiers was unlikely to give it. Veelas lived a goodly number of years, and although Diane looked no older than thirty, she could very well have been a hundred and thirty.

"Mr. Malfoy," she said, in a breathy voice. "What would you have me do for you this evening? I have promised to return you to your faithful comrades in twenty minutes." She tapped at her wrist, on the spot where a wristwatch would usually sit.

It was as if the sound of the crowd in the lower level, the dull throb of music and laughter had suddenly been muted. Veela magic, Draco lamented. Diane was transferring her full and complete attention onto him, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain hold over rational thought.

He felt a giddy urge to stretch his legs out, to lean back and smile like Harry did after catching the Snitch, to call her names like 'sweet puss' and 'my darling flower'.

This was ridiculous, of course. Malfoys did not indulge in nonsense endearments. Besides, the only endearment he ever used was 'Granger', and thankfully that couldn't possibly be applied to scantily clad, acrobatic, half-Veela courtesans.

She was smiling at him now. And as surely as the invisible tug one felt when travelling via portkey, Draco found himself rising to feet. He felt himself put one booted foot in front of the other, walk over to the bed and sit on the soft mattress.

He watched his hand pat the space beside him. In a swirl of perfumed silver satin, Diane was suddenly seated at the indicated spot, enthusiastically running a hand through his hair. The drowsy feeling was diminished now that she wasn't looking directly at him. Sanity tentatively returned.

Oddly enough, she didn't seem to be touching him with seduction in mind. It was more of an impersonal inspection.

"I'm almost afraid to ask what you're looking for," he said, feeling all of nine years old as he shrugged away from her. He felt like a monkey in the middle of a social grooming session.

She laughed. "Such a lovely creature. I haven't seen your like in some time, Draco. Forgive my curiosity, but I wish to see if this is real," she explained, running a long finger from his hairline down to his nose.

Draco took hold of her hands and put them back in her lap, much like he did with Hermione. "Trust me," he said, with annoyance, "It's real."

Diane studied him. "You have the air of a man who has gone _without_ for some time."

"Depends on your definition of 'without'. Since I dismissed my house elves, I've gone without a decent crème brulee for months. The manor towels aren't quite as fluffy as I remember, so I've 'gone without' in that department too. Also, I've had to answer my own front door lately."

Diane's clever fingers were climbing up along Draco's upper thigh. "I meant, without this," she clarified, in a suggestive tone.

"I'm a patient man," Draco told her, with a look that would have put out a fire at ten paces. "I don't believe this is an entailed part of your private performance, Miss de Poitiers."

Diane shrugged. Her cloak slipped over one shoulder, exposing a delicate collarbone. "I am only human. Well, mostly human. I like to indulge myself once in a while. You are so very fresh, Draco, and so pretty," she sighed wistfully. "But twenty minutes is hardly enough time to encompass all that I would like to do with you." She suddenly narrowed her eyes at him. "You are definitely getting married tomorrow?" there was bluntness to her voice now.

She was looking directly at him again, and so Draco took a moment longer to locate his usually formidable wit. "You must have missed the memo. Half of Wizarding Europe will be in attendance."

It would have been entirely too easy to give in, for that twenty minutes, to see to the incessant tension that had been plaguing him since this whole engagement business started.

Part of him was quite capable of doing this, to lie back against the bed and allow Diane's clever hands, and equally clever lips to do what he so sorely needed. Discretion was the hallmark of Veela courtesans. Nobody would ever know.

And he had been wanting for the longest time….

Like a shark sensing blood in the water, Diane smiled a slow, predatory smile and gently pushed him back against the bed. Draco found himself flat on his back, staring up in bemusement at an enormous, round mirror that was suspended from the canopy.

If he closed his eyes, he was certain he would have been asleep in less than a minute, so acute was his exhaustion. But he did not. He saw his reflection, his dark clothes and light hair standing out against the bright bed clothing. Diane's silver form slowly entered the frame, climbing up his prone body, inch by inch.

Like a big, evil, Sex Dementor.

Diane de Poitiers was an exceptionally beautiful woman. But as Draco watched her, he found himself wishing that her hair was darker, that her eyes were larger, fringed with thick brown lashes that framed an impossible look of mingled shyness and lust.

He wanted her to be small enough for him to pick up with one arm and hoist up against his body. He wanted her voice to be both authoritative and uncertain at the same time.

Damn it, he wanted the small, incessantly fidgeting hands, even.

If he didn't put her off in her seduction attempt, his body was going to give the answer his heart and mind was rebelling against. He sat up against the tasselled throw cushions, blond hair askew, and attempted to clear the fog in his brain.

"Yes, I am definitely getting marred tomorrow," he answered her.

Diane pulled her hand out of the gaping hole in the front of his pants, deftly buttoning him up without having to look down. "Are you quite certain, Mr. Malfoy? My talents are legendary."

This was true. He hadn't even realized his fly had been undone. "I've heard of your talents. Reliable sources tell me that you have penchant for Shakespeare, among other things."

She blinked, the corner of her red-rouged mouth quirked upwards in amusement. "You want me to recite a sonnet?"

"Either that or backgammon and I'm rotten at backgammon."

Diane tilted her head to one side, sending her golden hair tumbling over a bare shoulder. "Perhaps my current form does not appeal," she speculated, touching a fingertip to his temple. Draco felt a sharp, warm jolt pierce his skin, like static electricity, only pleasurable. She pulled her finger away, and Draco saw a minute silvery strand attached to her fingertip. It was at this point that he realized his mind was being read.

He closed his eyes, feeling her presence in his head for the briefest of moments. Nothing sensitive was probed, however. Superficial information was sought and retrieved in the space of a heartbeat. When he opened his eyes, he found himself looking at Ginny Wealsey, right down to the last Weasley freckle.

"So many strong women in your life, Mr. Malfoy," said Diane, in Ginny's sharp, self-assured voice.

And then the short, red hair lengthened to her waist, and darkened to a deep onyx black. The small, heart shaped face and pale, cream skin transformed. The end result was a very exotic looking, dark-haired girl, with slanted hazel eyes and a mouth that was wide, and generous.

Blaise Zabini, his business partner.

"This one is a worthy match for you, I think," Diane-Blaise said, with Blaise's throaty voice. "Beauty and business acumen. Much like a Veela."

"You're a metamorphmagus," Draco said, in wonderment.

"It is a handy skill to acquire when one is in a trade such as mine. I'm sure you can see the benefits." Diane transformed as she spoke, not losing eye contact with a very intrigued Draco.

"Erk!" Draco said, rather inelegantly, when Lavender Brown appeared before him and blew him a kiss.

"Perhaps not, then," Diane chuckled. She shook out Lavender's blonde hair, and Draco watched as the curls straightened, shortened and then darkened once again. There was less than a hair's breathe of space between Diane and Draco on the bed, and this space was diminished further when Diane morphed into a form that was larger than Lavender.

It was most disconcerting to find Harry Potter's green eyes staring at Draco with what basically amounted to unabashed lust. Not that it was a bad look for Potter, Draco decided. With Potter's pretty eyes and annoying, 'take-me-home-and-feed-me' appeal, the man really ought to have got more skirt. Draco surmised his dismal lick with the ladies was probably due to his terrible fashion sense.

"Um, no," Draco said, thinking that this wasn't the first or last time someone would speculate about Harry and him. "Mind you, he's drunk enough right now not to notice if I did make a pass at him."

"Worth a try," Diane shrugged. "But your thoughts remain with this one, no?" she asked, with a mischievous smile. Harry's lanky frame shrunk, his dark hair lightened, lengthened and erupted into a cascade of thick, teak-coloured curls. The green eyes were now a coffee-coloured shade of brown.

Draco felt his stomach give a little jolt of excitement as he stared at Hermione.

The glamour was faultless, right down to the five freckles across Hermione's nose. But there was knowledge in those brown eyes that would have looked entirely foreign on the real Hermione's face.

Draco suspected it was the type of knowledge that had more to do with knowing the best position to spank someone, or how much hot wax a man could have sprinkled over his genitalia before he begged for mercy.

"Love is a chemical reaction," Diane-as-Hermione declared. "Air and water, fire and Ice. All part of the same primordial base. But add a little heat, a little context and you have a reaction, an unstable reaction in some cases. I believe Jung put it best. The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances. If there is any reaction-"

"Both are transformed," Draco finished for her.

She sighed. "Love fades, Mr. Malfoy. Affection and companionship remains, if you are lucky. Interest, however, is what sustains us. Men pay me a pretty penny for arousing their interest. And I need not always resort to certain of my skills to do so," she said, leaning forward to brush a feather light kiss on Draco's jaw.

It was an affectionate kiss, containing none of the blatant seduction of earlier attempts. "I can debate Muggle philosophy and perform fellatio with equal talent."

"At the same time?" Draco asked, genuinely curious.

"Woman are excellent at multitasking," she responded, taking a healthy swallow of her drink, which was resting on a bedside table. Hermione didn't usually partake in hard liquor, and it was somewhat amusing to see 'her' tip back the contents of the tumbler without pausing for breath.

"You have six minutes left, Mr. Malfoy. I am not a miracle worker, but I can do much in six minutes."

Draco didn't doubt she could. "Fine," he said. He had the undivided attention of the world's most famous courtesan for six minutes. It would have been wasteful not to put her to good use.

"Something from the Muggle world…Dostoevsky," he decided, with a nod. "I hear morbid psychology is another passion of yours."

Draco wondered if he was the first person to turn Diane de Poitiers down. Twice, even. She looked stunned for a moment, but her face, Hermione's face, soon transformed with a look of genuine pleasure.

With a squeal of excitement, she clapped her hands together, tightened the belt of her gauzy robe and launched into an enthusiastic, six-minute critique of 'Crime and Punishment'.

It was quite possible, Draco discovered, to get just the slightest bit turned on by Dostoevsky. Most especially when it was recited by a scantily clad, 'Hermione Granger'.

**

**12.45am**

"Bill! I want to race!"

"You're not racing Harry."

"Why not? Where's Malfoy? He promised me a race..."

"Don't fib, Harry. Malfoy did not promise you a race. Sit down and finish that nice crossword we found for you. That's a lad."

**

**12.50am**

"Ron?"

"Yes Harry?"

"What's a five letter word for 'form of punishment usually carried out by one's parents'?"

"Hmm. What about 'spank'?"

"It fits! Thanks Ron. You're a really good friend..."

"You're welcome Harry."

**

**12.55am**

"I want to race. Charlie, will you race with me?"

"For the last time, Harry, no!"

**

**1am**

"That's right Harry," Neville crooned. "Give the pretty lady her shoe back. I know, I'm sorry you've got nothing else to do, Harry. Where's your crossword? Oh? You've finished it already? Yes, I agree. Ron is a very good friend for helping you."

**

**1.10am**

Lee groaned. "Harry? Harry, come back here! Dean would you just grab him...ah, thanks, mate."

**

**1.12am**

"I told you to watch him!" Fred scolded George. "Now what am I going to tell Ron?"

**

**1.15am**

"Over by the bar," Lupin said, pointing to where Harry was gently stroking and whispering to the seat of a barstool.

**

**1.20am**

The barmaid nodded. "He was just here. Asked where the nearest shoe shop was. I told him if he wanted to buy a pair so badly, he'd have to wait until the shops opened again on Monday."

**

**1.23am**

The waitress was quite vexed. "Starkers he is! He wanted to have my shoes, but I told him he wasn't allowed. They're part of my costume and they have to go back at the end of the night. It's true what they say in the papers about him, isn't it Mr Weasley?"

**

It was a conspicuously subdued group that greeted Draco when he exited Diane's room and came down the stairs. "What do you mean you've _lost_ him?" Draco demanded, surveying the guilty faces before him. "How did you manage that?"

"Believe me, it wasn't that difficulty," said Ron, who was looking extremely harried. "But we can't let him wander off on his own, what with bloody Death Eaters on the attack..."

"Death Eaters?" Fred demanded, all trace of humour vanishing from his face. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Draco stared daggers at Ron. "Er, it was a minor incident. Gregory Goyle attempted an ambush while I was taking a leak outside. Thankfully, Malfoy here saved the day. Moody and the RAL are patrolling outside."

Neville did not look impressed. "I can't believe you and were attacked tonight and you didn't tell us!"

Ron opened his mouth to retort but was interrupted by Draco. "Everyone will be briefed in due course," he assured. "Our main concern right now is Potter."

"You mentioned the RAL are here. If he's his spewing his guts out in a gutter somewhere, chances are that he's being minded," Fred opinioned.

"Still not a good thing, bloody attacks three months after the war's supposed to be over," said Seamus, frowning. "Hermione and the girls are on their own at the Burrow..."

George shook his head. "I wouldn't worry about them, mate. Nothing will get through the Burrow. Mum, Dad and the prettier half of Dumbledore's Army are over there."

"You mean the scarier half," Fred grinned.

George nodded. "Yes, that's what I meant. Scarier half."

Ron looked determined. We still have to find him. He's the ring bearer for tomorrow. There's also the small matter of Ginny doing me bodily harm if anything happens to him."

"We'll find him," Draco assured. "Ron, you and Finnegan take the back end of the pub. Longbottom, check the lavatories. Fred and George, it's unlikely that he's upstairs, but have a look anyway. I'll check outside."

Draco retrieved his cloak from the back of his chair, and was in the process of putting it on when he saw the large, silver stain on the front of the garment.

George cleared his throat. "Ah yes, sorry about that, Malfoy. Bit of spillage earlier...."

"What is it?" Draco snapped.

"Prototype. Lumin Essence Potion," Fred informed, sounding immensely proud.

Actually, the twins had tested it on more than just Draco's cloak, but given that Draco was looking particularly murderous, none of the others were willing to tell him that he was glowing rather violently.

**

Unknown to the revellers, the bachelor was about to perpetrate a daring escape from his own party. Draco would not be able to do so in good conscience however, if Harry was passed out in a ditch somewhere, slowly freezing to death. His mood was thus less than pleasant, as he made his way through the crowd, fending off slaps on the back and numerous attempts at slurred conversation.

His broom had been checked in at the pub's cloakroom upon his arrival. And it was there that Draco witnessed what was undisputedly _the_ spectacle of the evening.

Severus Snape: Potions Master, former Death Eater, former double agent for the Order, Head of Slytherin House, Bat of the Dungeons and the man who had been known to terrify first year students into hysterics, was holding a bottle of the same pink concoction Harry had been drinking, and was _singing._ "Sweet _Polly_ she lived by the ocean..." "Sweet _Polly_ she was a good lass..." "Been doing that for an hour now," said the cranky looking witch who operated the cloakroom. She handed Draco his Scorpion Sting. "Should have said my name was _Brunhilde_." There was foul play afoot at the tavern tonight, and it carried the reek of fragrant, pink, bubbles.

"With hair that was spun gold and copper..."

"And lo! What a mighty fine-"

"Lost something, Mr. Malfoy?" interrupted a familiar voice. Jason Stephenson materialised from the crowd, sparing an amused glance at Snape, before joining Draco at the pub entrance.

"Stephenson. I didn't know you were here."

Jason grinned. "Yeah, that's the general idea. I can't be doing too badly if you haven't noticed me yet. If you're looking for Potter, he just walked out the front door. I think the man needed a bit of breather, if you catch my drift. My brother Alex is watching him."

Relieved, Draco clapped a hand over Jason's shoulder. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Jason replied, and then, almost as an afterthought, said, "Are you having a good time?"

Draco's response surprised even him. "Yes, actually. I suppose I _am_ having a good time."

Jason was now looking at Draco's broom, a look of amused understanding his aqua eyes. "Just make sure you're back before closing. I can cover for you until then."

**

Fortunately, it took Draco less than a minute to locate Harry. All he had to do was to follow the sound of retching.

He found Harry slumped over at the fountain in the middle of Hogsmeade Square. Harry's previously immaculate suit was crinkled and stained with spilt drink, while his hair looked as mottled and unkempt as Hermione's beloved Crookshanks.

The large form of Alex Stephenson loomed in the background, watching. Draco nodded at the man, who saluted in return and took a few steps back to give Harry and Draco some privacy.

"Potter? Oh, for Merlin's sake. Everyone's been looking for you."

"I'm fine. Feeling a mite queasy, but fine…otherwise." Harry gave Draco a thumbs-up gesture, which unfortunately upset his tentative hold over balance.

He would have toppled backwards into the fountain, if Draco didn't grab hold of the back of his collar to steady him.

"You look like shit."

"Yes, well we can't all be glamorous twenty-four-seven," Harry said, with a great deal of belligerence. He squinted up at Draco with watery, bloodshot eyes. Several more seconds were presumably spent attempting to focus his vision from behind his glasses. "Never would've guessed that 'Mione would like the pretty ones. I always thought she'd end up with a right ugly git. All the best ones go with the ugly gits," Harry declared, in the age-old wisdom of the severely sloshed.

Draco thought of Ginny and Justin Stephenson. For Harry's sake, he hoped Harry wasn't about to be proved wrong.

"I'm a definite improvement over Krum, at any rate," Draco said, taking a seat beside Harry at the edge of the fountain. He took care not to sit too close, just in case Harry wasn't quite done with emptying his stomach. "Or Lockhart, for that matter."

Harry cackled. "How joo know about that?"

"Dueling Club, second year. She was looking at him much the same way Crabbe used to look at treacle pudding."

"Spanking friend, Hermione," Harry announced, loudly enough for half of Hogsmeade Village to hear, "despite her terrible taste in men."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "If you're going to threaten me with violence in the event of my mistreating her, you can save your breath. Wealsey already covered that topic three weeks ago."

"That's fair enough," Harry said. Or at least that was what Draco thought he said. It might have been 'furry muff', but that was just rude and nonsensical. "Only I wasn't going to threaten you with violence," continued Harry. "I'm not the completely self-obsessed prat everyone thinks I am. I see things, Malfoy. _Things_. Some things even Hermione might miss. Nobody will look after her better than you."

Draco stared at the Boy Who Lived. "And how did you come by that conclusion, Potter?"

"Ever noticed the way a poor kid's eyes light up when he's offered something expensive, something usually out of reach, like gold...like the best racing broom money can buy?"

Draco nodded, although really, he wouldn't have had a clue. Most of his classmates in Slytherin had been pleasantly well off. Well, all except for the strange, mousy-faced, sixth year exchange student from Australia...what was his name again? Rooty Billings?

He had shown up in their common room one afternoon, wearing a pair of tatty, patched, great big, furry boots. Nobody in Slytherin had attempted to make conversation with the unfortunate boy after the incident.

"You look at her that way," said Harry. "Believe me. I know what it's like to go without special things. But take care that you don't spend all your time marvelling at what you have and how you got it, when you should be making the best of it."

"Potter, are we comparing my fiancée to a prized broom?"

Harry pondered this. If he had a beard, he might have stroked it. "Yuh. Guess so."

"No wonder Ginny left," said Draco, rather unkindly.

Harry groaned. "I didn't say I didn't have my own problems. And I'll have you know that I've planned myself a hatch to get her back."

Draco heard Alex Stephenson's muffled snort of laughter. "It is a good hatch, then?" Draco asked, hiding his smile behind his hand.

"The best," Harry said, before covering his mouth and doubling over.

From the corner of his eyes, Draco saw the Alex move to assist, but Draco shook his head and waved him away.

"Nasty pink bubbles," Harry grumbled, in between hiccups.

"Yes, we now know to stay clear of drinks with pink bubbles..." Draco concurred, the image of a singing Snape still fresh in his mind.

He dug into his pockets, pulling out a small, black velvet pouch, and then a white handkerchief. He wet the handkerchief in the fountain, and handed it to Harry.

"Here, wipe your face."

"Thanks." Harry sloshed his face in silence for a minute. "What's that?" he asked, looking at the pouch Draco was putting back into his pocket.

Draco looked hesitant for a moment. "It's something I've been meaning to give Hermione," he said, stiffly. "For her to wear tomorrow."

"I gave her something," Harry said, "A bracelet. She thinks it's pretty, silly girl. But it's more than that. I'm also giving her the six Larousse charms that I made to go with the bracelet. As a wedding whatchamacallit, _present_."

Draco's eyes widened. "Potter, that would have cost you a bloody fortune."

Larousse Charms were priced in the thousands of Galleons. Only a few were made each year. Each Charm was a Ministry authorized portkey, which could be activated by the wearer in times of dire emergency.

Harry was scowling at him now. "I've got money. Just because I don't nance around in fancy clothes doesn't mean I'm a pauper."

"I do not nance," Draco scoffed. "I'm not sure that's even a word."

Harry held out a finger. "Oh, you nance, alright. Look it up. It's right there in the dictionary between 'smug' and 'git'. Right next to your picture."

Draco didn't think this comment deserved a response, so he waited until Harry had quit sniggering at his own words. "Which locations did you key into the charms?"

It took a while for Harry to reply. He held up three fingers and attempted to count on them. "Five places. The Burrow, Grimmauld Place, Snape Hall and the Granger's residence. I was saving the last charm for whenever you sign the papers for that new place you're thinking of buying."

"How the hell do you know about that?"

Harry smiled, "You're not the only one with hired eyes, Malfoy."

The sudden sound of muted laughter coming from the direction of the pub belatedly reminded Draco that he hadn't come to find Harry for a chat, as amusing as it was proving to be. He was there to send the drunken sod back inside, whereupon he would take off to see Hermione at the Burrow. They had already wasted enough time.

Harry too, seemed to be regaining his wits. He stood up, after a fashion. "We should go back in."

Draco beckoned to Alex, who stepped forward to escort Harry.

"You're not coming?" Harry asked, only just noticing Draco's Scorpion Sting.

Draco shook his head. "I was hoping to spend a bit of quality time with my 'prized broom' before the wedding."

Harry nodded. "Don't blame you. It's going to be a bleeding circus tomorrow. Did you know that Hermione's invited sixteen of her Muggle relatives?" Harry informed, staring at Draco beadily.

"Yes, I know, Potter," Draco sighed. "It's my wedding too."

"Oh. Well off you go then," said Harry, making a 'shoo shoo' gesture, as if Draco was the one keeping them there.

Harry didn't even seem to register the presence of a stoic Alex, who had wrapped a large hand around Harry's elbow and was gradually leading the inebriated wizard back along the path to the pub.

"Twelve o'clock, Draco. Don't be late," Harry dutifully reminded. "And thanks for making me Best Man. I really appreciate that, I don't think I told you before…"

Draco was already in the air. He remained hovering as he watched the bodyguard and the boy hero make their way down the street and eventually disappear around the corner.

"You're welcome, Harry," Draco whispered, to no one in particular, before he sped upwards into the air.

Chapter End Notes:

Story continued in 'Something Old'.


End file.
